


Lotus

by skyling



Category: Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (TV)
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Character Study, Darryl Whitefeather/Josh Wilson side pairing, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Valencia does not understand Dairy Queen, character driven, gals being pals (on a giant pretzel), mental health, therapeutic ocean-yelling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2018-11-05 09:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11010636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyling/pseuds/skyling
Summary: Rebecca has always had trouble holding onto a sense of who she is. She mimics movie characters, tries on personalities like outfits, changes like the weather of a much less temperate zone than West Covina. And the hardest part is that these identities aren’t as simple as lying — Rebecca commits to the role, shapes her life around it.It’s her pattern. Find what others want, and become that. Be loved at any cost.She’s been practicing for this all her life.But when Josh Chan leaves her, Rebecca is forced to reevaluate her entire way of seeing relationships — and herself. And what about these feelings she's developing towards Valencia? As the two get to know each other on a deeper level, slowly their relationship takes shape in ways that are both more complex and more meaningful than Rebecca had ever thought possible. This isn't going to be simple. But that doesn't mean it won't be worth it.





	1. feelings, talking thing, or; screw you, you majestic shithead

**Author's Note:**

> _'cause anyone who has ever sat in lotus for more than a few seconds_  
>  _knows it take a hell of a lot more muscle to stay than to go_  
>   
>  -andrea gibson

Rebecca Bunch sits crumpled on the manicured lawn, knees to her chest and face hidden in her folded arms. The afternoon wind whispers as it sways through the palm leaves and tall, decorative grass. Rebecca shakes with tears or breathing. Her wedding dress, grass-stained where it pools around her, gleams with painful brightness, stinging Valencia's eyes in the late afternoon sun. Sharp, rhinestone glitter draws her mind back to the flash of the waves, the jagged rocks Rebecca had stood over so shortly before, and Valencia's heart catches in her throat.

She knows she isn't good at this. This... feelings, talking thing. She's a problem solver, not a problem... talker. But Valencia's eyes grow blurry and her skin hums with anxiety, unable to fully let go of that fear that gripped her when she thought she might lose Rebecca. Maybe Valencia doesn't know what to say, but she also knows she won't forgive herself if she doesn't try to say _something._

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

At first, Valencia isn’t sure Rebecca has heard her. As she sits down beside the other woman, Rebecca doesn't look up, continues to vibrate with sobs into her knees. The too-quiet air prickles Valencia's skin; _breathe out stress,_ she tells herself. _Clear your energy channels._ But attempts to clear her mind are interrupted by the distant sounds of Rebecca's mom berating her ex-husband — _"She wanted you in her life and this is what you do, scheming shikker, why she even expected you to behave like a human being I have no idea—"_ Valencia tries without much success to tune it out, guilt tugging at her insides because she knows, another day, she might have been drawn to eavesdrop on the conflict. But now, knowing Rebecca like she's come to, seeing what her friend has been through, _is_ going through... she can't find this entertaining. It breaks her heart. 

_"If you're going to abandon someone at least have the consistency to LEAVE THEM ALONE!"_ Naomi screams. Valencia expects Rebecca to flinch at the sound; instead, she doesn't react at all. She seems used to it.

The more Valencia learns, the less "crazy" Rebecca's behaviour seems. Yes, she's intense, and her judgement isn't the best — okay, that's putting it mildly — but she is, in her own weird, confusing way, a good person. And she's hurting terribly. 

Paula would know what to say, but she's taken on the unpleasant task of sending the guests home. Maybe Valencia could get her attention somehow, find some casual way to summon her over here — but before she can think of one, Rebecca finally speaks. 

"He left me. On our wedding day." Rebecca's voice is muffled by her knees, and Valencia has to lean in to hear. "I just... I knew it was too good to be true. I _knew_ something would ruin it."

A pang of emotion Valencia can't identify moves through her — isn't she supposed to want this? Her rival in tears, now that neither of them can have Josh? But the twist in her stomach kills the possibility of any satisfactions, and it's more than just her meticulously-planned wedding being ruined by a guy who still wears board shorts. As she sits beside Rebecca, watching her shoulder's shake, Valencia's chest aches as though she herself is the one struggling to breathe. What she wants, she realizes, isn't spite or revenge or a fabulous ceremony or grandiose one-up. All she wants is to take away some of the pain her friend is going through. 

"The only 'something' that ruined your wedding is named Joshua Felix Chan," says Valencia, voice hardening. "And I would know. Like, he puts all these expectations on women to take care of him, to give his life some direction, and when things aren't perfect he jumps ship." Valencia slips off the headset she'd been wearing, sets it down on the nearby picnic table. Gentler, she says, "Believe me. You're in good company." 

Rebecca raises her head, though she remains curled in a tight ball, clutching her legs like she's afraid she'll fly apart if she doesn't hold onto herself. In her reddened eyes, the irises shine jarringly blue, like they're piercing through Valencia. "Thanks," she says evenly. Then her voice splinters, "I can't believe I was such an _idiot._ " 

Behind her, the lowering sun crests into oranges and blues, outlining the trees and grass seeds in deep gold. The scenery would be calming in any other circumstances, but Valencia's heart, normally a steady 40 beats per minute, hammers against her chest. 

"No," says Valencia. "Seriously, you're the smartest person I know. Josh is the idiot. He’s a… big, stupid idiot-head.” Despite herself, the corner of Valencia's mouth quirks upward with the slightest smile. “I learned that one from you, remember?"

Rebecca's mouth trembles, but she nods. 

“Josh has no idea what he wants. And, whatever, that would be fine if he didn't try to use everyone around him to fix his directionlessness. But you deserve better than being used." 

Hesitantly, she puts a hand on Rebecca's shoulder, prepared to pull away if it's the wrong thing to do. Instead, Rebecca leans into her, opens her arms to hold onto her. Valencia is startled, but embraces her back, Rebecca's hair soft against her neck. It's unfamiliar, being this close to someone she isn't dating, but... it doesn't feel bad. It feels... close. Valencia holds her, feels Rebecca's breathing slowly steady. 

"God," says Rebecca when the two separate. "It feels like I'm vibrating, or collapsing or something." She chokes out a laugh like broken glass. "I'm so _angry._ I just wanna scream." 

"So go for it," Valencia says.

Rebecca blinks. "Like, now?"

"Why not? It's not like a more scream-worthy moment's going to come along any time soon."

"I dunno." Rebecca sniffs. "It seems pretty crazy."

Now _you’re worried about that?_ Valencia thinks. But she says, "Would you honestly expect anyone in your situation to feel sane right now? Come on. I'll start."

And before Rebecca has a chance to stop her — before Valencia has a chance to stop herself — she's on her feet, climbing up onto the picnic table and looking out over the tranquil waves, taking a deep breath, opening her mouth, and splitting the air with a shriek. Seagulls scatter in a flurry of wings, disappearing into the inconsiderately picturesque sky. When Valencia's lungs are empty, her ears ringing with the aftermath of decibels, she smirks, steps down, and calmly pronounces, "Your turn."

Rebecca stares at her, so stunned she even forgets to cry. "What am I supposed to yell?"

Valencia flicks her wrist dismissively. "I'm sure you can think of something." In demonstration, she reascends the table, cups her hands over her mouth, and hollers, "Screw you, ocean!" Smiling, she says, "See? Easy."

Rebecca walks up beside her and chimes (well, bellows) in, her voice growing in confidence and volume, "Yeah, you're not even close to two hours out of town you DECEPTIVE BASTARD!" 

Their voices ring back off the rough rocks, wash over the whispers of the waves. 

"Frat boys surf on you in stupid shorts!" calls Valencia.

"Fish pee in you!"

Valencia makes a face. "Ew."

"Sorry."

"No, no, keep going, yell something."

The tightness in Valencia's chest and shoulders eases a bit. Gross imagery or not, it's a relief to hear Rebecca say something so Rebecca-like. 

"Screw you, you majestic shithead!" Rebecca shouts out at the indifferent waves.

"Don't ignore us when we're talking to you!" Valencia adds. 

"Yeah! We're not the ones being dramatic! You think you can give us the silent treatment!?"

"That you can ignore all your problems and we'll just pick up after you!"

"And what can God do for you that I can't, anyway?"

"You'll talk to telemarketers but don't have time for us?"

"Did _Jesus_ help you with your job application? Did he mail you soup?"

"You'd still be living with your mom if I hadn't been there!"

"Did Jesus make you breakfast ramen?"

"You cheating ass!"

"What kind of grown man eats ramen with chocolate sauce?"

"AAAAAAAAAAA!!!!"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!"

Together they yell until their lungs are empty, voices combining in one great sound of accumulated frustration at their combination-ocean-slash-ex. They pour out all the noise they can gather inside themselves, the indifferent water waving on, hushing with gentle wind. Their shouts reverberate off the cliffs, bouncing out, fractured and carried on the currents stretching on beyond perception. Somewhere in the distance, an unseen dog responds with a frenzy of yapping. 

As she inhales for another "AAAAA" Valencia hears a faraway siren echoing over the hills. "That wouldn't be for—" 

"No, yeah, that's for us" says Rebecca, scrambling down off the table, "disturbing the peace, that's a thing, let's book it."

Valencia follows her lead, breaking into a sprint towards the parking lot, through the gold-edged grass, past the vacant guest-chairs.

Valencia, the faster runner, leads them to her car, climbing into the front seat and unlocking the passenger side for the other woman. A second later, Rebecca sits down beside her, face flushed and struggling to catch her breath. Valencia tries to give an encouraging smile, but Rebecca's breathing continues to quicken, until she's almost hyperventilating, and it's clear this is more than just struggling with cardio. 

"It's okay," says Valencia. "We're safe, just two friends, totally unsuspiciously in a car, doing... driving things. Come on, breathe with me — in — out."

Rebecca nods, follows along. Gradually she mostly catches her breath, though her eyes remain nervous, wild. 

For a moment, the two sit in silence. Looking at their reflections in the windshield, Valencia sees how exhausted the other woman is. Her hair is tangled with wind, mascara smudged smoky. A corner of her mouth trembles, like she's consciously controlling every facial muscle to remain moderately composed. Valencia thinks of her, going home to that house still littered with wedding supplies, mementos of Josh Chan.

"Hey," she says quietly, after a few moments have passed. "Why don't you stay with me tonight? Or I can drive you to Paula's —"

Rebecca looks down. "Paula's still working things out with her husband. I don't want to get in the way."

"Okay. So is my place okay?"

Rebecca nods. "Thanks," she says finally. After a pause, she looks up at Valencia and adds, "That's nice of you." Her voice is very tired.

"Hey, no one's ever said I'm not nice."

Rebecca looks as if she's about to say something, then stops herself. With a shaky smile, she says, "Yeah. Anyway, thank you. For... all of this." 

"It's okay."

"Can we just sit here a bit longer?"

"Of course."

Rebecca stares through the windshield, looking out into the sky's endless, empty blue. The burnt gold light deepens over the landscape as the day draws to an end, and her tears begin again, this time silently. On the seat divider, Rebecca's hand, taps out a shaky, accidental drumbeat. Gently, Valencia places her own hand on top to still the trembling. 

Rebecca reaches for her, entwines their fingers. And holds on.


	2. chicken and rosé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca learns more about Valencia, and Valencia reflects on what Rebecca means to her. Also, Valencia is surprisingly ignorant about Dairy Queen.

Rebecca Bunch stares out the passenger window, watches palm trees and beachfront fade into billboards and housing complexes, shadows lengthening as the day draws to a close.

"Do you want the radio on?" says Valencia, in that softly bright voice Rebecca is learning to recognize means _I don't know what to do, but I want to help._

"No. My head hurts." It's true, though not the whole truth. Songs will make her think — about love, or breakups, or just generally existing. The last thing she wants right now is to think. About anything. She watches the darkening asphalt, the white lines scrolling endlessly beneath the bottom of the car, tries to let them hypnotize her. 

All she wants is for this to be a dream. For her whole life to be a dream. To go to sleep and wake up in the morning as someone, anyone, besides Rebecca Nora Bunch. Some non-intense, non-obsessive, non- _crazy_ person who doesn't scare away the people she most wants to love her.

"Hey," says Valencia, as they enter the city core. Gas station lights and fast food advertisements dye the air neon beneath the cobalt clouds. With an elegantly manicured nail, Valencia points to one of the cherry-red billboards. "It's that restaurant you like. We could get the, what's it called, the stripper chicken bucket." 

For a moment, Rebecca is so perplexed she forgets to be in existential despair. "You mean Dairy Queen?" she says. "You mean the _chicken strips_ basket?"

"Right," says Valencia, "that one. You said it was your favourite." 

And despite herself, Rebecca laughs. "Stripper chicken bucket? Really?"

"In my defense, I know very little about fast food culture," says Valencia.

She says it so seriously that Rebecca can't help but laugh again. At all of it: here she is, in a car with her close friend / former rival / super-cool-lady-inspiration / breaking and entering accomplice / Friendtopia Czar of Torture / wedding planner / ex's ex, on a day that began with, not to be dramatic, but literally the most disastrous wedding in the history of human existence, and is now ending in... chicken. Apparently. 

Here she is, her mind torturing her up with looping memories of everyone who's left her. And here is Valencia by her side despite all odds, genuinely showing that she cares. Offering up the awkward and ordinary and oddly sweet gesture of (mostly) remembering a comfort food Rebecca had mentioned one time, months ago. 

Abandonment has always felt like obliteration to Rebecca. Like the absolute worst pain, a scream in her mind telling her of her differentness, her worthlessness, her absolute aloneness in the world. Her incurable unlovableness. 

When Josh didn't come, wasn't coming, it felt like confirmation of all the worst things she had ever thought about herself. It felt like proof: _you will never have the things a normal person has. Something is deeply wrong with you and everyone can tell. And they will leave you because of it._ She felt like she couldn't survive the feeling. She felt like there was no reason to. 

Yet here she is. Despite everything her brain had said, everything other people had said, despite Josh not wanting to be with her... she's still here. And she isn't even alone. Valencia is right beside her, rolling her eyes and saying, "Okay, you're right. I guess it is kind of funny."

Rebecca's vision fogs up again, though this time it isn't from a wave of despair but from some other emotions. As much as she loves and believes in female solidarity, Rebecca never could have anticipated any of this.

It is funny.

"You know what?" says Rebecca. "Chicken strips would be great, actually." 

A moment later, they've ordered (and Valencia has confused the server by requesting a spinach and green mango salad for herself), and soon there she is, eating chicken strips in tear-streaked makeup and a grass-stained wedding dress, laughing with Valencia and feeling, for a moment, okay.

*

When they arrive at Valencia's apartment, the brunette gives Rebecca a loose West Covina Yoga Studios t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to change into as pajamas — Rebecca recognizes them from Valencia's own post-Josh phase and isn't sure how to feel about that. Like, at least she's not alone in this, but reliving someone else's breakup is... weird, to say the least. 

She takes in the decor of the apartment; tasteful teak furniture, colourful vases, a yoga mat, airy curtains and an ornament of brightly polished stones on strings, catching the light from the spacious window. All of it neatly arranged, dustless. Almost untouched. 

Rebecca's eyes are drawn to an intricate wood carving of an elephant.

"I got that in India," says Valencia. 

"You were in India?"

"Two years ago, for four months. I have an aunt there. Then I went to Thailand, China, and Pakistan."

"You never mentioned any of that!"

"Yeah. I like, used to travel more, but it put pressure on my relationship with J— anyway, I decided to stay closer to West Covina."

Rebecca mines her memory for a relevant quotation from feminist masterpiece _Blood and Lice_. Unable to find one, she speaks from her heart: "Valencia, you are so perfect. You don't have to change yourself for a man."

Valencia gives her a look like her eyes are x-rays through Rebecca's own past: smoothie phase, vegan phase, surfer phase, hipster phase, nü metal Steve phase (let's just forget that one, there's no way Valencia could possibly know about her high school neighbour Stephen Akimoto's Linkin Park cover band and Rebecca's short lived but passionate foray into suburban mallgoth subculture... right?). A look like, _seriously, Rebecca?_

"But anyway," says Rebecca, breaking away from Valencia's gaze. "Whatever your reason for being here, in West Covina... I'm glad you are. I'm glad I met you."

"Me too," says Valencia. When Rebecca looks up, the other woman is smiling softly, her dark brown eyes warm with hints of gold. And Rebecca has the strangest sense that if she doesn't look away, she won't be able to stop looking.

Something about the way Valencia speaks, the way she carries herself, never fails to draw Rebecca in. Her confidence and blunt wit, the occasional openings in her self-possessed armour revealing unexpected depth. Her micro-expressions, surprise or affection lighting or softening her sharp features, her dark-lashed eyes and elegantly curved lips (oh no, she's looking again).

At first, Rebecca thought she wanted to be Valencia. To possess that dignity, beauty, and confidence for herself. But now, she realizes, that isn't it. What draws her in is how Valencia is so purely herself. One of a kind and proud of it. Impossible to replicate. 

It's unfamiliar to Rebecca, herself so prone to picking up mannerisms and personality traits of those around her, who's always wanted so badly to fit in. Valencia is solid in herself. She knows who she is. 

And Rebecca's would never want her to be anyone else. 

"What is it?" says Valencia. 

"Nothing," says Rebecca, too quickly. Then, "You know, I was just thinking. You visit Heather and me all the time, but now that I think about it, we never really come over here."

"You and Heather have a nice place," says Valencia with unconvincing flippancy.

"Our place," says Rebecca slowly, "where the roof fell in." And that's not even mentioning the bagel crumbs, room-hoarded cereal bowls, half-bottle of dessert wine forgotten in the bathroom, and Heather's inexplicable habit of forgetting her pants on the kitchen table — _seriously, why on the kitchen table?_

"Okay, well, being with you two is nice. When I'm here I'm always on my own, I'm just stuck with the—" she gestures vaguely —"memories. This is the first time since high school I've had a friend group. I like being in that space." She says it quickly, as though to get the vulnerability over with as soon as possible.

An avalanche of affection tumbles over Rebecca. "Aww. That's really touching."

Valencia scoffs, but smiles. "Yeah, what can I say. First humor and now feelings. You're getting to me, Bunch."

She strides over to the kitchen island. "Anyway, do you want rosé?" 

"Pft, obvs," says Rebecca. 

Valencia pours two glasses, the liquid sparkling pale pink in the fading light that gilds the room. When Valencia brings her the drink, Rebecca is examining a picture of Valencia at a colourful outdoor event, standing in a silver dress and heels, flashing a perfect smile beside an older man and woman, surrounded by a plethora of children and teenagers. 

"My sister's quinceañera," says Valencia. "That's her." Valencia points to a pretty, dark-haired girl, her grin a shimmer of braces. "And my little brother." She points to a preteen boy in a slightly too big suit, his hands in his pockets. "That's my mom and step-dad." The older couple beside her.

"Your mom's really beautiful," says Rebecca. The older Latina woman's confident posture and dark, sharp eyes resemble Valencia's. 

For a moment Valencia doesn't say anything. Rebecca worries she's said something wrong. "Do you two get along?" she asks, then regrets it — what if the question just makes it more uncomfortable for V?

But Valencia answers, "Yeah, mostly. We're both intense people, so we argue. But I admire her. That's why I named myself after her maiden name." 

"Valencia," says Rebecca, "meaning brave."

"Yeah. And it suits her. She was young when she had me, and she did a good job — but with just the two of us, I had to get independent pretty early. And then she had this new husband, and these two little kids — so most of my life it's been me on my own. Which is... fine." Her face softens. "But it's been a good change, having you and Heather around."

"Yeah," says Rebecca softly. "I feel that. When I lived in New York I didn't really have anyone — just go to work, and then back home by myself, and that was... it. Pretty much every day." She pauses. "You know, it's weird. I thought Josh was what was keeping me here. But ever without him, I've felt more at home in West Covina then I ever have anywhere else." 

Valencia raises her glass. "To being here," she says, and they clink.

*

The evening passes in talk about their families and travelling (Valencia never knew Rebecca had volunteered in Ghana), Valencia preparing them a homemade green curry while Rebecca helps chop vegetables, the occasional rant about Josh (from both of them), and another glass of rosé apiece until they've finished it off. There had only been half a bottle to begin with, which is why Valencia had offered it — she's well aware moderation is not in Rebecca's vocabulary. Especially when stress is involved. 

Even so, two glasses of wine is enough to inspire several teary-eyes confessions from Rebecca about how grateful she is to Valencia, how glad she is to have her in her life. Or maybe that's not the rosé talking at all, just Rebecca herself. 

Valencia reciprocates as best she can, telling Rebecca she's grateful to know her, too, embracing the other woman with inexperienced hugs. It's a pleasant, if awkward, feeling. Rebecca's hair smells of flowers and mango shampoo. She holds Valencia tightly, closely, in way that makes her feel... wanted. 

She's not used to that. The last time she had close friends had been over a decade ago, and they'd been a two-faced clique, ready to turn on her if she wore last season's shoes or had an uncool interest or hooked up with the English teacher or whatever. She'd had plenty of admirers, male and female, but that wasn't the same as a friend. Though they liked ogling her, Valencia saw through to their lack of interest in her as a person. Somehow, all the staring made her feel even more unseen. 

The only one who'd been different had been... well, Josh. Like, yeah, he wanted to sleep with her, obviously, but it wasn't just that. He listened to her. Believed in her, encouraged her to pursue her interest in yoga, celebrated her achievements and held her when she was sad. Made her feel like a real person.

She tried to support him the same way, though she knows that in recent years she failed. And so did he. He stopped asking what she wanted, spent more and more time away, tuned out when she talked. Sure, he had a carefree charm, but it would have been nice if he did care. Just a little. 

Slowly, she realized that she was being used after all. Not for sex, or popularity, but because Josh couldn't stand to be alone. Maybe he didn't even realize it, but she did. And it left her with an underlying rage, at him, at herself, made her distant and rude. Near the end of their relationship, she hated the words she heard come out of her mouth, hated the way she tried to control him. Hurt as she was, he deserved better. They both did. 

And then came Rebecca to complicate Valencia's entire worldview. Rebecca listened to her, genuinely seemed to enjoy being around her — like Josh at the start of his and Valencia's relationship, but different. Rebecca was clever, not only enthusiastic but engaged (cringe, poor choice of words) in the conversation, sharing information Valencia hadn't known, rather than offering up that her favourite animal was Antarctica. It was exciting, talking to someone who was interested _and_ interesting. Valencia hadn't realized how much she'd missed that, how long it had been. 

She'd never met anyone like Rebecca. 

And then Rebecca kissed her. It wasn't the physical feeling that bothered her, but emotionally. That sense of being used rushed back to her — _of course she doesn't actually care about talking to me. Of course it was all a ploy for sex. How could I have been so stupid?_

She rushed out, furious, expecting to never see Rebecca again. 

And then she did. And then she did again. 

What did this woman want? Like, clearly she wanted to get with Josh, but then what was the point of trying to hang out with Valencia? She totally didn't get it. Rebecca really did seem to want to spend time with her. 

And the truth is, Valencia wanted that too. 

After she and Josh had broken up, Valencia had been planning to move from West Covina. She had no ties to anyone here — she was well aware Josh's friends didn't like her — and she could teach yoga anywhere. She could learn more, get paid better, advance her career. All West Covina seemed to hold were memories of a failed relationship, a close-knit community that excluded her, and an immobilizing sense of stagnation. 

And Rebecca. Somehow, in this tiny town, Rebecca Bunch was living this exciting lawyer life, stirring up more drama than West Covina had seen in twenty years, sharing confusingly-explained feminist theory, and trying to be her friend.

Rebecca saw her at her worst and pulled her out of carb-filled, post-Josh depression. Made her believe in herself again. 

And so, for the time being, Valencia decided to stay. 

As Rebecca hugs her, saying how glad she is to have Valencia in her life, Valencia embraces her back. She's not sure how to show it, but the truth is, she feels the same gratitude. 

And like she has on a few previous occasions, Valencia catches herself imagining how she might react if Rebecca were to kiss her now. How it might feel. 

Friendship is confusing on so many levels. 

It's past 11 by the time they clear away the dishes, both of them exhausted from the events of the day. "You can have my bed," says Valencia. 

"Oh, I couldn't —"

"Please. After the day you've had, you deserve cashmere."

"Thanks, V. You really are the best." 

"Oh, I know," she says, and they both smile.

A moment later, Rebecca is laying on her queen-size mattress under the silky blanket, hair on the pillow in a curly gold halo. As Valencia moves to turn off the light, Rebecca says, "Hey, um, Valencia?"

"Yeah?"

Rebecca's eyes are shy, not quite meeting hers. "I know this is kinda weird, and you can say no, but... do you want to stay here?" Rebecca winces slightly. "I know it's stupid, but I feel weird about being alone."

"Sure," says Valencia. Why not? The bed has room enough for both of them. And she's glad, in some small way, to be able to help Rebecca feel better. 

Valencia tidies up her dresser, sets out her morning vitamins, straightens the books on ashtanga yoga technique, and clicks off the lights.

"Valencia?" says Rebecca groggily, at least half-asleep. 

"I'm here," says Valencia, "I'm right here."

Eyes closed, Rebecca "mmm"s contentedly as Valencia snuggles in next to her. 

For the first time in weeks, Rebecca sleeps soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gals being pals. 
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and comments on the first chapter! Hope you enjoyed this one too.


	3. the perfect woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebecca reunites with her friends, returns to work, and begins to spend more time with Valencia. Minor crime and fluttery feelings ensue.

Rebecca drifts in and out of sleep, gradually becoming aware of the unfamiliar texture of the blankets around her, the apricot light that isn't quite like morning in her own room. For a moment she lays peacefully, limbs starfished across the bed, unaware and unconcerned with where or who she is.

Then she remembers. 

The previous day’s disaster sinks into her stomach like a fist. Rebecca rubs the sleep from her eyes, then groans into her hands. 

_Well, guess I’d better get up._ It’s not her first choice, but dissolving into the air by sheer force of will doesn’t seem to be an option. Though if she were in her own bed, she'd certainly try. But she doesn't want to inconvenience Valencia.

Valencia. Rebecca’s insides do that weird flippy thing. Valencia had been there for her. Beautiful, cool, actually-surprisingly-considerate Valencia had wanted to help her. 

Even after the long, long list of everything that had happened between them, through some twist of luck Valencia still cares about her. 

And then Rebecca is baffled to realize she's thinking of herself as lucky, today of all days. She tries to identify what she's feeling, but can't put words to it. Maybe Dr. Akopian can refer her to a remedial class on how to be a human being. 

After crawling out of bed and straightening the sheets, Rebecca runs her fingers through her hair and tries her best to impersonate an emotionally-functional woman. Looking in Valencia’s full-length mirror, she uses her index finger to fix her smudged eyeliner. It’s not as effective as she'd like it to be — the shadows somewhat rub off, but she's still a puffy-eyed, tired-looking, bagel-after-midnight eater. Standing back, she turns side to side, wondering what Valencia sees in her. 

_Maybe she feels sorry for me. That's probably it._

Finding her purse on the dresser, Rebecca digs through for her cell. 

27 unread messages. 

Sighing, Rebecca slips the phone back into her bag.

*

She finds Valencia in the living room, stretching out on a yoga mat. Rebecca tries to sneak by without interrupting, but Valencia looks up and smiles, her dark eyes shining in a way that makes Rebecca somehow — embarrassed? excited? — to be the object of her attention. “You’re awake,” says Valencia, rising to her feet with a sunny smile. 

“As are you,” Rebecca says, then inwardly chastises herself. _Very astute observation. Great conversational skills there, Bunch._

God Valencia is pretty. Like an angel with really great abs.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen,” says Valencia, leading them there. “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

“Personality and sleep disorders,” Rebecca mumbles, then cringes when she realizes she’s said it out loud.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Rebecca leans on the table in what she hopes is a reasonable facsimile of a casual pose. “So, like, what did I talk about?”

“Is that… comfortable?” 

Rebecca, realizing her casual pose has somehow ended up with her elbow behind her head says, “Yup! Morning stretches! You know me, all about that musculature health.” She stretches her leg behind her to demonstrate, then tries not to wince as she bends something that apparently isn’t meant to bend. “So, anyway, what did I talk about?”

“I don’t know, it was mostly mumbling. Something about roasted corn.” 

A wave of relief moves over Rebecca, and she isn’t quite sure why. It’s not like she’s keeping secrets from V — not anymore, at least. Yet she can’t quite shake the anxiety that Valencia wouldn’t like her anymore if she knew… what? How cool Rebecca thinks she is? It's not like Rebecca hasn't already told her that herself. 

Valencia adds, “Also, you hugged my arm a lot.”

“Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I felt very loved.”

Valencia sets down two plates on the table, a bowl of salad, sliced fruit and vegetables, and a bagel. 

“Did you pick that up just for me?” says Rebecca, her eyes lighting on the gluten-y delicacy.

“Yeah, I taught a class at 6 this morning and stopped by the Jewish deli on my way home.”

“Aww, you brought me the food of my people.”

“By the way, these sprouts are all yours, too.”

“Right. No legumes.”

“You remembered,” says Valencia, a note of surprise in her voice.

“Yeah, of course. I like listening to what you have to say." 

Rebecca starts eating, then realizes Valencia is watching her. Suddenly self-conscious of the sprouts emerging from her mouth like tiny tentacles, she lifts her hand to cover her mouth, swallowing. “What is it?”

“Oh,” says Valencia, seeming to snap out of a trance. “Nothing, just…” She pauses, as though deciding whether to continue, then goes on, “I was thinking about how I missed hanging out with you. It’s good to spend time with you again.”

“Yeah, I should get left at the altar more often.”

Silence falls between them like a sheet.

“Was that… humour?” Valencia finally asks.

“Sorry. Yeah, no, I don’t know what that was.” Rebecca laughs awkwardly. “It’s good to spend time with you again, too.”

Poking at a slice of orange with her fork, Rebecca says, “What I meant… what I should have said…" She takes a breath and tries to organize her thoughts, then looks Valencia in the eyes. "Look. Yesterday was one of the worst days of my life, okay? Worst case scenario, all of that. Except… it wasn’t. I mean, yeah, ha, it was a disaster, but it wasn’t the worst thing that could have happened. I thought… I thought if I lost Josh, my life would be over. But… it’s not. I'm still here, and obviously I'm not thrilled about what happened, but I'm okay. I was so scared that if I lost Josh I'd lose everything. And for a while I thought I had, but then… you were there.”

Rebecca continues, her voice stronger, “I just want you to know, I meant everything I said to you when we first met — I think you’re incredible. And the more I get to know you, the more I believe that. When Josh didn’t show up, I thought there was no way my life could ever be okay. But it is. I am. And so much of that is because of you, how you've been here for me. You make my life better by being in it. Even if things had to totally fall apart for me to realize that... I'm glad I did. I'm glad you're in my life. That’s what I was trying to say.”

Valencia lays her hand on the table, on top of Rebecca’s. “You make my life better, too.” 

The two women smile. Around them, the day begins. 

*

After Valencia drives her home, Rebecca spends several minutes with her key in her hands, trying to psych herself up to open the door. She’s grateful Valencia can’t see her like this — she’d had to go teach another yoga class, and although she’d offered to cancel, Rebecca didn’t want to ask any more of her. Besides, she kind of just wants to sit in her apartment, eat ice cream, and become a blanket burrito for the rest of the day. 

She’s about to turn the knob when the door moves away on its own accord. Or at least, that’s what it seems like at first — Paula is standing in the doorway, a cardboard box tucked under her arm. 

When she sees Rebecca, her eyes widen, then soften as she pulls the younger woman into a hug. “Oh, cookie. Did you get my texts?”

Rebecca hugs her tightly. “I did, I’m sorry, I just needed not to think for a while. Valencia looked after me.”

To her surprise, Paula shows no signs of jealousy. She doesn’t even make a joke about Valencia’s name. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” She says, posture visibly relaxing. She takes a step back, examines Rebecca (who is still dressed in the t-shirt and sweatpants from Valencia’s post-breakup stage). “How are you doing?”

“I’m okay,” says Rebecca. She’s surprised by the strength in her own voice. Surprised to realize she means it. 

Seeing movement in the background, she cranes her neck to see Heather in their apartment, also carrying a box. There's not a trace of lacy debris in sight. “You guys cleaned up the wedding stuff?” A wave of love overtakes her, her eyes clouding as she pulls Paula into another embrace. 

“Duh, of course,” says Heather, walking over to join in.

"The last thing you needed was anything more to deal with," says Paula. 

"Aww." Rebecca holds them both close. 

Heather stands stiffly but embraces her as well. She says, “I’m not really sure what to do with my arms in this, like, blob of friendship. But I want you to know I’m directing affection at you.”

“I feel it,” says Rebecca. And she does. 

*

As the week passes, Rebecca and Paula bond over tearful and vengeful heart-to-hearts. Well, rants, but heartfelt rants. Paula is a font of ideas, be it hacking Josh's Facebook, ordering strippers to interrupt his next church session, or, mildly poisoning him with one of Nathanial's smoothies. 

Rebecca, however, has other plans. 

Yes, she's furious. But unlike Paula's, her rage doesn't run in one direction. Yes, Josh betrayed and abandoned her. But the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes she should have seen it coming. That she should have _stopped_ it coming. 

You don't graduate top of your class at Harvard if you can't self-critique. Rebecca's always been good at pushing herself — pinpointing her mistakes, and yeah, maybe obsessing about them a _little_ , but it works, doesn't it? She's a fantastic lawyer, she speaks three languages, she made his family love her (or, well, they did, and she can fix that again), she's sophisticated as fuck. 

And if Josh had just _seen_ her at the top of her game, he would know that. If she'd just been _better_ , he wouldn't have left. 

Rebecca is well aware these aren't what Dr. Akopian would call "balanced thoughts" (her brain makes sarcastic airquotes even as she thinks the phrase). But where has balance ever gotten anyone? Extremity doesn't have to be a bad thing. She can be extremely hardworking, extremely self-controlled, extremely brilliant, extremely charming, absolutely unstoppable.

She notices the glances at work, Darryl's gentle way of asking if she's okay. No, she isn't okay, and why should she be? Why should she settle for okay when she can be fucking amazing? 

So when Darryl tells her he's there to talk, she simply nods and asks that he pull up all the files he can and leave her to work. And when Paula wants to conspire, she enjoys the outlet for her frustrations, but nevertheless knows that things will work out. Things will be _fantastic._

No one can abandon you if you're indispensable, right? 

Soon Josh Chan will rue the day he left the perfect woman. Soon he'll want her back. Maybe she'll accept him, maybe she won't. But whatever the case, she'll be in control.

And everything will be perfect. 

As long as she can keep pushing herself. As long as she can keep it together. 

_Who needs Adderall when you have avoidance issues?_ that little voice in her internal monologue, the one that sounds eerily similar to Dr. Phil, chimes in. 

_I'm not avoiding anything, _Rebecca replies, plugging headphones into her computer as she settles in to work. _I'm being... proactive. Goal-driven.___

____Now, I know denial when I see it,__ continues disembodied Dr. Phil. __I ain't some Hassidic hillbilly with a snoot full of honeybees—___ _

__Rebecca clicks on a Broadway playlist, blasting him out of her earways with "What You Own" from Rent before he can finish that incredibly southern — and possibly anti-Semitic? — sentiment._ _

__*_ _

__The drive home is the hardest part. At work Rebecca can block out her thoughts with plans, action, to-do lists tiled across her desk. And when she's with others, she can focus on the interaction._ _

__But, alone and undistracted, her thoughts eat her alive. Her mind races and anxiety creeps in with its familiar grip on her heart. Sometimes she has to pull over until she can breathe again._ _

__By the time she gets home, she's exhausted._ _

__In the past she would have ignored that; back in New York, she'd negotiate with clients until nightfall, making her voice cheerful and peppy even when she wasn't able to pry herself out of bed. She'd pore over paperwork for hours, looking for loopholes and small-print clauses, numbed out and propped up by a combination of take-out, pots of coffee, and heavy duty medication. She'd spend days of her life like this, stomach churning with acidity, chest feeling so hollow it might collapse, but undeniably productive. Telling herself, _this is what happy feels like.__ _

__But in West Covina, things are different. Heather invites her to watch bad reality shows, and to her surprise she accepts. There are texts from Paula and Valencia, checking in with her, sharing the latest gossip (Nathanial wants to suspend Karen for trying to sell sex toys at her snake's custody hearing, and she's arguing that her contract has no specific rule against this), or inviting her to ladies' night at Spider's (Spiders? Spiders'?)._ _

__She puts her papers away, answers her texts, and settles down on the sofa beside Heather, feeling herself smile._ _

__"You know, we're actually all pretty well-adjusted," says Rebecca, as one of the real housewives takes off her prosthetic leg and throws it, Jimmy Choo and all, at another woman during an elaborate dinner party._ _

__“Totally,” says Heather. Rebecca can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. Grabbing a handful of popcorn, she decides it's probably best not to ask._ _

__*_ _

__As the weeks pass, one of the things that most surprises her is how much time she spends with Valencia. Although she finds comfort in Paula's fierce care, and looks up to Heather's coolness, what she has with Valencia is... different._ _

__When her phone lights up with a text and she sees Valencia's name, her breath catches and her heart speeds up. It's like anxiety except... also nice?_ _

__Meeting Valencia in the evenings, she frequently finds herself wishing the night would never end. She could listen to Valencia talk forever; Rebecca loves the cadence of her voice, the way she moves, the warmth in her eyes when she talks about her yoga or travel plans. Valencia's smile is always picture-perfect, her skin clear and hair shiny no matter what is going on in her life — but in her eyes, Rebecca learns to pick up the subtle hints of what she's feeling. The slight hesitation in her gaze when, beneath her polished mannerisms, she's sad or worried. And the light, that soft spark that comes out when she's really, truly happy. Rebecca loves that spark._ _

__Obviously she tries not to spend too much time gazing hypnotized into her friend's face, but nevertheless, the hollowness in her chest dissipates whenever V meets her gaze, replaced by a kind of humming, fluttering feeling. Sitting down to lunch or drinks with her, the colours of West Covina park brighten, the green of trees deep and vibrant, and even the hum of bees becomes more of an ornamentation than an annoyance. The world is somehow amplified, beautiful in all its detail. She feels really here. Connected._ _

__And, unlike with a lot of people Rebecca has admired, this doesn't feel one-sided. Valencia listens to her, nods, asks questions. When Rebecca's throat catches talking about Josh or her family, Valencia puts her hand on hers and something inside Rebecca steadies._ _

__When Valencia looks at her, she feels seen. When Valencia is with her, Rebecca doesn't feel trapped inside herself._ _

__At first they talk mostly about Josh, the most obvious common ground. "He thought Harry Potter was an autobiography," Valencia tells her over a very fancy water. "It's not even written in first person." But with each conversation, they realize they have a lot more in common than a mutual ex. They're both intensely ambitious, even if their fields are very different. Valencia gets wrapped up in Rebecca's stories, appreciating the thrill of besting an opponent or winning a case, and Rebecca is likewise impressed by the work Valencia puts into teaching yoga and running her studio. The two women cheer each other on in their accomplishments, clinking glasses of rosé and sending each other texts filled with exclamation marks._ _

__Rebecca has always been impressed by Valencia's composure, but she also loves seeing this enthusiastic, sometimes even silly, side of her personality. It's like when they first met, how they'd talk and laugh late into the night, but now without the denial or subterfuge. There's no Josh between them now — when they hang out, it's simply to enjoy each other’s presence. Soon they don't talk about him much at all, not because they're avoiding the topic, but because there's so much else to discuss._ _

__With each interaction, her sense of who Valencia is grows and deepens. Rebecca never wants to stop learning, discovering new sides to her. For all her social media stalking of the past, this is the most she's ever gotten to know who Valencia really is._ _

__Valencia opens up about her own anxieties. "Do you think I had too much salad?" she says one evening after dinner, running a hand down her sparkling gold dress. "I feel really bloated."_ _

__Rebecca knows Valencia is self-conscious about these kind of things, but it still always surprises her. Valencia is so beautiful — like, not that size matters, she'd be the same stunning deity regardless of dress size. But how can Valencia, someone who comes across as so confident and in-control, be so self-critical underneath it all?_ _

__Rebecca wants to offer solutions — all this great feminist literature! Latest scientific studies! The wise words of Professor Goddess! — but she knows Valencia tunes out when she talks like that. Rebecca can't really blame her; were she in Valencia's place, she wouldn't exactly be looking to herself for life advice. So this time, instead of trying to solve everything, Rebecca listens to her._ _

__"I don't think you can eat too much salad, "says Rebecca. "I mean, it's leaves, that's about as natural as it gets."_ _

__"Yeah, but that tamarind dressing, with my blood type... I mean, what would my students think if they saw me?"_ _

__"Probably, 'Oh! There's my super cool yoga teacher and her fabulous friend. Just two smokin' hot ladies who do dinner together.'" Rebecca, unlike Valencia, had opted for wine rather than fancy water. Nice, brain-fuzzing, definitely-not-yoga-approved wine. She's quite pleased with this decision, wellness coaches be damned._ _

__Valencia smiles, but the hesitation in her eyes remains. "I don't know. I just worry about not being good enough."_ _

__Rebecca has to keep her jaw from dropping to the pavement — how could someone as incredible as Valencia be plagued by the same insecurities as mere mortals like herself? "You could eat all the leaves in the world and you'd still be good enough. Or like, none of the leaves, whichever is worse. Either way, anyone would be lucky to learn from you."_ _

__"Thanks. I don't know, I worry about it. It's like, if I could just focus my energy into this perfect little ball of self-control and success, nothing could hurt me. I'd be... I don't know. Permanently happy." She waves a hand in dismissal of her own thought. "Though obviously that's a ridiculous idea."_ _

__"No, I know that feeling," says Rebecca. She moves closer, putting her arm around Valencia's waist. The wine is making her cuddly. Or more accurately, less concerned about containing the physical affection she usually wants to show towards Valencia. Valencia seems comfortable with the contact, leaning into Rebecca, whose heart quickens. "But to be honest, I'm pretty happy right now," Rebecca says softly._ _

__Valencia thinks for a moment. "Yeah. I guess I am too."_ _

__She smiles again, and this time, Rebecca can tell she means it._ _

__"You know, you're a pretty special person," says Valencia._ _

__"So I've been told. In a variety of tones of voice."_ _

__"Well, this tone of voice means I'm glad you came to West Covina. Even if things had to go totally off the rails... this place would be pretty dull without you."_ _

__They walk together amongst graffiti-spattered walls, beneath powerlines gleaming in the moonlight. After a moment, Valencia says, "You know, I never understood why you like it here so much. I thought you'd want to move away after... you know. You could start over. What's keeping you here?"_ _

__"Well, for one thing, you just happen to live here," says Rebecca, which makes Valencia laugh — God, Rebecca loves the sound of her laugh. "And, I mean, all my friends. I dunno." She shrugs. "I guess it's the first place that's ever really felt like home."_ _

__"I guess I can understand that," says Valencia. "Even if I'm constantly fighting off the impulse to, like, run away to India."_ _

__"Well, for the record, I would not object to a chance to see India, so please feel free to pack me in your suitcase. Though you might hear your luggage eating bagels at midnight. Or like, naan."_ _

__As they walk past closed storefronts, Rebecca sees a familiar sight up ahead. Speaking of gluten... "Oh my God, is the giant pretzel down? The giant pretzel is down."_ _

__"It looks like they're adding mustard?" says Valencia, as the landmark comes more clearly into sight. West Covina's definitive local artwork, the massive pretzel usually situated on top of the snack shop, dangles a few feet above the ground via a chain attached to a crane, next to gleaming buckets of what must be paint._ _

__"Come on, let's climb it," says Rebecca. "I'll race you."_ _

__"Uch, why do all your favourite activities have to be illegal?"_ _

__Rebecca sticks out her tongue. "Mleh."_ _

__"Oh, did they teach you that in law school?" Ignoring Valencia's words, Rebecca begins a tipsy sprint. "Okay, stop stop stop." She reaches for Rebecca's hand and the other woman falls into Valencia's arms, giggling._ _

__Looking into her eyes, Valencia says, "You are way too important to me for you to break your neck swinging from a giant pretzel."_ _

__Rebecca is genuinely touched. "Aww. Val—"_ _

__"And I never lose a contest." Disentangling herself, Valencia takes off in a dash._ _

__"Hey!" Rebecca runs after her._ _

__Valencia makes it to the pretzel a few seconds before Rebecca — up close, it's more than a few feet off the ground, and she has to lift herself in a pull-up to climb into one of the pretzel-loops. Rebecca jumps, catches onto the other side, swings up her legs to wrap around the pretzel from underneath, then cries out as she gets stuck in that position. Valencia helps her clamber up, Rebecca's vision spinning wildly with the ground swaying beneath her. By the time she's safely atop, she's out of breath with the mix of excitement, relief, and laughter._ _

__"Okay, you win," says Rebecca, after a deep breath._ _

__"What's my prize?" says Valencia playfully. If Rebecca didn't know better, she might even say flirtatiously._ _

__Her heart speeds up again. Trying to stay cool, she says, "Well, how about I take you to dinner next week? I have a client who might be able to pull some strings, get us into that really exclusive sushi place."_ _

__"Deal."_ _

__They sit side by side, one in each loop, as the pretzel slows its swaying. The moon shines brightly through the deep navy sky, and with the stores' florescence turned off for the night, the stars are visible in the California night. A faint ocean breeze wafts on the cool air._ _

__Slowly their hands creep towards each other; Rebecca isn't sure who initiates it, but soon their fingers are entwined, each woman feeling the warmth of the other's palm. They sit, wordless and calm, looking out over the silvery blue evening._ _

__And for once, Rebecca isn't thinking about being anywhere else, being anyone else. For once, she's just feeling good. For once she's just... happy._ _

__Suddenly, the air ruptures in a creaking, cracking sound. The pretzel shifts, and both of them let out a yelp, scrambling back towards the earth. Rebecca is the first to get down, landing on her hands and knees with the help of many ill-advised adventures' worth of muscle memory. She reaches out to catch Valencia, guiding her towards the ground._ _

__As the stand back, they see a noticeable crack in the top of the pretzel._ _

__"Eh, the mustard should cover it," says Valencia._ _

__"That's it, I'm filing a lawsuit for a safety hazard," says Rebecca. "How are the good citizens of West Covina supposed to know this large, imitation baked good cannot sustainably support the full body weight of two fully grown adult women? This is a travesty."_ _

__"Let's get out before anyone sees us," says V, and the two walk, briskly and un-suspiciously as possible, from the scene of the crime. A few blocks away, they burst into laughter again, giddy with adrenaline. Valencia smiles, eyes shining like stars, and holds out her hand for Rebecca to take as they begin the walk back to their homes._ _

__Holding on, Rebecca memorizes the moment: streetlamp glow pooling on the asphalt, the stars she can count (14), wind shuffling the palm leaves, a distant siren ( _oh shit, is that for us?_ ), the inky blue night, the warmth of Valencia's hand in hers. This moment that, however imperfect, is perfect all the same._ _


	4. friends and enemies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Akopian receives Rebecca's old legal and medical records, and she has opinions on them. Rebecca goes to therapy and is confronted with confusing thoughts and memories as she tries to figure out how to go on into her future.

After her client is left at the altar, Doctor Noelle Akopian doesn't have an easy job. 

Okay — to be fair, it's not like she had an easy job before. Noelle has never laboured under the misconception that her profession would be easy. 

Through two decades of clinical practice, she's learned all about the importance of setting boundaries, maintaining a professional distance, accepting that it is not her job to solve her clients' problems but to provide them with the tools to improve their own lives. Above all, if she wants to avoid burnout, she must _not_ let herself be pulled into the cyclone of emotions in some clients' more turbulent lives. She has to let them make their own decisions, learn from their own mistakes if need be. And although she can offer advice and emotional support, it's not her place to judge.

Still, some cases make this more difficult than others. Sometimes, it takes every ounce of Noelle's willpower not to blurt out, _"Can't you see the denial you're in?!"_

Case in point: Rebecca Bunch. 

The first few weeks after the wedding was supposed to take place, Rebecca is alternately grandiose and despondent. She takes her place in the seat across from Noelle, bouncy and animated as she talks in rambling, frenzied sentences about her successes at work and how much better off she is without Josh Chan, "that lying liar who lies, who said he would be with me forever and then cheated on me with _God_ " (she waggles her fingers in sarcastic mysticism at the last word). 

But other days — or even during the same appointment — Rebecca sits in haze of misery, answering Noelle in monosyllables, her eyes red and puffy, folded into herself like she's trying to disappear. 

Noelle gets the story in bits and pieces. Rebecca kissing Nathanial, paying to move up the wedding, her father and then Josh's betrayal. Sometimes Rebecca doesn't want to tell the story. Other times she can't stop talking, roiling with rage or guilt, blaming Josh or herself or the world. She criticizes Josh viciously, but she's no kinder towards herself: "If only I hadn't been so stupid," "so _crazy,_ " "if only I'd planned it better, everything would have worked out."

"Would you have been happier if it had worked out?" Noelle asks her on two separate instances. 

"Well duh!" says Rebecca the first time, wild-eyed and shaking with vehemence. Her arms whirl in wide, furious gestures, and she looks like she's about twenty seconds away from flailing into Noelle's favourite lamp and/or storming out of the office to find another (likely illegal, definitely self-destructive) coping mechanism to add to her repertoire. And while Noelle wants her client to "fully feel her feelings," this takes a backseat to keeping Rebecca out of jail (and preserving her lighting fixtures). So she changes the topic back to Rebecca's work.

The second time, Rebecca is more melancholy than angry. She sits with her shoulders slumped, head down, her whole being crumpled inward. "I should have seen the signs," she says quietly. "I should have been there for him, done more to make him love me. If I'd just tried harder... I should have been able to do this."

"Would you have been happier if you had?" Noelle asks once again, keeping her voice gentle.

Rebecca takes a moment to answer. When she does, the doctor has to lean forward to hear her. "I don't know. But I know I'm not happy now. I don't... I don't know who I am without him." 

This time, Noelle knows she's telling the truth. 

Rebecca has always had trouble holding onto a sense of who she is. She mimics movie characters, tries on personalities like outfits, changes like the weather of a much less temperate zone than West Covina. And the hardest part is that these identities aren't as simple as lying — Rebecca commits to the role, shapes her life around it.

All the roles Rebecca took on weren't so much about deception as they were about trying to find a sense of identity and belonging. She wanted to be loved. And in exchange for that love, she was willing to become anything, anyone. All the identities she'd taken on to please Josh, Robert, her friends, her family... they weren't a cover-up to hide her true sense of who she knews herself to be. They _were_ the only way she knew how to be. 

It's her pattern. Find what others want, and become that. Be loved at any cost. 

She's been practicing for this all her life. 

And yet, it doesn't work. 

Despite her walk-in wardrobe of identities, the same traits emerge in Rebecca — her intensity, intelligence, off-beat sense of humour, enthusiasm, desire for meaningful connection. Not to mention her moodiness, insecurity, and self-loathing. Despite Rebecca's best efforts, all of her best and worst qualities eventually resurface. But rather than face herself, Rebecca simply finds another new identity to take refuge in. 

But at the same time her personality is too strong to ever be fully erased. She swings between contradictory extremes, seeing the best in everyone, herself included, or the absolute worst. She's Mother Theresa Luther King (Noelle didn't ask what exactly that meant, but she got the gist) or a Disney villain. She makes her friends, partners, or even acquaintances the center of her universe, then changes her mind and forgets about them entirely. It's exhausting for everyone around her. And it's exhausting for Rebecca, too. 

In her appointments after Josh's departure, Rebecca's many facets shine through. She is strong and capable and furious and hopeful and childish and vengeful and generous and reckless and ambitious and self-obsessed and self-destructive. 

In short, she's the same as always. Only more so. 

Noelle keeps a close eye on her. Even in Rebecca's confident moments, there's a fragility — her issues run deep. And even if Rebecca doesn't realize it herself, there's a pattern to them. 

On the one hand, she isn't having panic attacks and drinking pen-vodka during office hours. Nor are she and Paula running off to commit various felonies (if it weren't for patient confidentiality, Noelle would have filed some serious complaints about this law firm's management style). 

But that's not enough to prove she's doing well. In fact, Rebecca seems to have resorted to the workaholic lifestyle she'd lived before coming to West Covina. The very one that left her sleepless and miserable, medicated halfway to oblivion, and desperate enough to move across the country for a man she barely knew. 

A few weeks ago, Rebecca's records had finally arrived. As Noelle read over doctors' notes and court reports, she'd been shaken. But not surprised. 

She knows Rebecca. And she knows men like Robert. Despite his feigned naiveté, Noelle is willing to bet that he was drawn to Rebecca not despite but because of her instability. He wanted a fantasy — an ingénue, a femme fatale, a manic pixie dream girl. And Rebecca, who viewed her life as a movie, was always willing to play a role. 

Especially if love was the prize for a good performance.

But, performance though it may have been, it wasn't a fantasy to her. She wasn't pretending to be impulsive, obsessive, to care about him above all else. When he said he would marry her, she believed it. Of course she believed it. She had been practicing all her life for a role like this. She was willing to give up all she had, and all she was, to be with him. 

To him it was a fantasy. But to her it was a promise. 

As time went on, Robert must have realized the stakes of the game he was playing. Being the center of her universe started to feel less like a power trip and more like responsibility — which is exactly what he'd gotten into this arrangement to avoid. Rebecca's disregard for consequences started to look less like a fun quirk and more like overt self-endangerment. Her intensity, once exhilarating, didn't turn off when it became embarrassing, or inconvenient, or even frightening. Her insecurities, her painful memories, her need for genuine closeness — all the messy humanity spilled out of her. 

And he had never wanted something real. 

Better to get out while he could. Tell his friends she's unstable. He knew no one would listen to her side of the story, anyway. He was a respected member of the community. 

And she was the crazy ex-girlfriend. Or at least, that's how other people would see it.

In the end, he didn't have to do very much at all to discredit her. Rebecca's own impulsivity took care of that. Because once he was gone, she didn't care how reckless she was. Without him, she didn't care what happened to her.

Rebecca had shaped her entire personality to please him. She had erased herself for this man. When he left, she was left with nothing.

Or at least, that's how she saw it.

Shortly after the breakup with Robert, Rebecca had attempted suicide. She phoned up family members in a panic, and Naomi had coached her to go to the ER, rushed down to be with her. 

It was a complicated love; Naomi hated to see her daughter in pain. But her way of dealing with that was to deny that there _was_ pain at all. The records indicate how Naomi had talked about her: "dramatic," "young love," "theatrical." Naomi sat at her side for hours, and when the doctors came, both Rebecca and her mother assured them it had all been a misunderstanding. _Bad breakup. You know how it is. She's fine to go home. Yes, I'm fine._

Rebecca was released early the next morning and attended class as usual. 

Then she tried to burn down Robert's house.

A less wealthy woman would have become another casualty of the legal system. But Rebecca had her mother's team of lawyers on her side, and so was lucky enough to have her problems identified as mental illness. But that's about where her luck ended.

The legal and medical documents frame Rebecca's treatment as a success. Noelle's fury mounts as she reads them, seeing the medication dosages rise despite little evidence they are working, that they are even the right prescriptions for Rebecca's emotional dysregulation. Overmedicated to the point of numbness, yes, Rebecca became less reactive. But she didn't become any happier. 

Released from the hospital, Rebecca went to law school with no therapeutic follow-up — Naomi took over, spoke for her, saying she didn't need it. And as complicated as her relationship with her mother was, Rebecca clung to that denial. 

Rebecca remained at the top of her classes, pleasing her mother and the judge — but not necessarily indicating recovery. Exhausting herself to live up to her mother's dream wasn't personal growth but a kind of resignation. Once again, she tried to convince herself that, if another person valued her — even a person she couldn't stand — she was worthy of existing. That if she could just be _perfect_ , she could avoid abandonment. Because, as domineering and hurtful as her mother could be, her company was still less frightening than the prospect of being entirely alone.

But even as Rebecca rose to Naomi Bunch's impossible standards of success, the sense of emptiness persisted. She got top grades, but her internal life was in disarray. Loneliness was constant; she was frantic and numb, unable to sleep, afraid of her own thoughts. The rare times she saw her doctor, she continued to report thoughts of suicide. Her doctors continued to increase the same ineffective drugs, and her mother continued to brush off Rebecca's erraticism as attention seeking.

So Rebecca brushed it off too. It was easier to push it from her mind than to accept that she felt trapped in a life she didn't want. A life she wasn't able to tolerate. And that, in order to change it, she would have to alter the way she had always understood herself. 

Rebecca has never seen herself as real. And in Noelle's professional opinion, if Rebecca is to get better she'll have to confront that life isn't a music video, or a movie, or a test to be failed or passed. To learn that a personality isn't a costume to be changed with each new relationship. To learn that no matter how hard she tries, there's no guaranteed method to keep others from leaving her. To learn that she's not a heroine in a movie, nor do others exist to be her supporting characters, and that there's nothing so simple as a happy ending. 

Though a film may end with a kiss or a wedding, real people don't get happy-ever-after — they get the rest of their lives, with all their daily pains and victories and love and pettiness. And they try, despite their human imperfections, to be good to each other. And they keep trying. Because that's all anyone can do. 

No matter what happens, Rebecca will always have herself. And if she is to make a life she wants to live, she will need to find a way to see that as reassuring rather than terrifying. 

When Rebecca finally does face herself, Noelle isn't sure whether it will stir her to work towards self-acceptance, or activate her to self-destruct in earnest. But whatever happens, it will change her.

*

"Angry." 

Rebecca sits across from Doctor Akopian, tapping her Manolo Blahnik against the hardwood and trying not to pick off the sky-blue nail polish that Heather had done for her the night before. She feels like there's a motor inside her, humming through her limbs with the urge to move, to fidget, to run away. At this point, even using her old treadmill for its intended, non-hot-dog-related-purpose is beginning to sound appealing. 

But she's not at work, and even if she were, that's no longer her office to go back to. That time in her life is over; now she's here. Now she's officially Rebecca Bunch, Woman Left at the Altar. Rebecca Bunch, Psychiatric Patient. Rebecca Bunch, Not Good Enough.

But she will be.

Feeling a prickling in her hands, she looks down to see that her sky-blue nails have been digging into her palms. She unclenches her fists, flips her hair, and tries to shake herself out into Rebecca Bunch, Successful Lawyer.

Doctor Akopian meets her gaze and waits for her to say something. 

"I felt devastated," Rebecca articulates. "I mean, I don't even know why you're asking that, no one's ever been elated about being dumped, especially not at their wedding —" _Slow down,_ she tells herself. Her voice is getting fast, and she doesn't want Akopian to get the wrong idea. No, she wants Doctor A to understand that she's being really, truly rational about this. 

She takes a deep breath. "But. I have since let go of all negativity, and am moving forward with proaction and self-care. Henceforth —"

(Unnoticed by Rebecca, Noelle flinches. Nothing self-aware has ever begun with "henceforth.")

"— I have sworn to let no man ever make me feel that way again."

"And which way is that?"

"Furious," she restates. But that's not quite right. There's a power in fury. "And worthless. I felt stupid, and alone, and abandoned, and..." She takes a jagged breath. Wiping her eyes, she's embarrassed by the moisture that comes away on her hands. "Whatever. It won't happen again." _Successful Lawyer Mode._

"It will, though," says Doctor Akopian. Rebecca gapes at her. "Not necessarily to the same extent, but you are going to be hurt again. Rejection is an inevitable part of life — not everyone is going to like you. That's why it's important to build a sense of self-worth that isn't entirely dependent on outside validation." 

Rebecca scoffs. "Okay, you know what, I'm sorry, but I've been through this — I've seen a lot of counsellors in my life. I know it, the whole 'be your own best friend' thing."

"I'm not saying you have to be your own best friend. Simply to treat yourself with the same worth as any other person — as someone who deserves to have her needs met, to be okay, to be happy even, simply because you're human."

Rebecca is quiet for a moment. 

"What are you thinking?" says Doctor Akopian. 

"Nothing, it's just... it sounds too easy. To just be unconditionally _nice_ to myself."

"Oh, it's not. Believe me. But it's worth it." 

Rebecca looks out the window, the perfect jade green lawn darkening in the perfect royal blue of the approaching autumn evening. Everything in Doctor Akopian's life looks so clear, so calm. _I could be happy in a place like this,_ Rebecca finds herself thinking, even as she knows it's not true. She remembers herself, thrashing on that grass after breaking in, that time Doctor Akopian caught her. It's how she always, or almost always, feels; like she's the one imperfect thing in the scene. 

Of course Rebecca wants to change. Of course she doesn't want this cyclone inside her to keep spinning, tearing her up and wreaking havoc for everyone around her. Who would want that? She wouldn't be like this if she knew how not to be like this. No one would.

Why don't doctors understand that? She isn't doing this on purpose.

She wants to get better. She wants the perfect calm, the happy life, the love that doesn't run out. But something inside her can't stay still. Can't shake the feeling that, no matter where she goes, she doesn't quite belong. 

Maybe constantly trying to be great! and perfect! and amazing! isn't healthy. But it's less frightening than thinking that, no matter what she does, she'll always be stuck feeling this way. 

Someone is talking, and Rebecca startles to realize the voice is her own. "You know, when I was in high school, my anxiety started to get really bad — it was like this fist around my heart, gripping it. And then I realized, you know what? This doesn't matter. No matter how shitty I felt, I was able to get my work done. I could keep it to myself, so really, what difference did it make? Like, hey, maybe everyone else feels like this too, but they're just better than at dealing with it, so it would be stupid to draw attention to my own inadequacy. 

"And then I met Josh, and... he was the first person to act like it _mattered_ what I felt. Who actually wanted to spend time with me, and listen to me. I know I shared a lot with him really quickly. But... I'd never been able to talk to anyone like that before. I didn't know I could.

"And then he was gone. Now he's gone. And... shouldn't I be able to go back to just not caring? I mean," she laughs, "I got through Harvard by pushing through these feelings, so why can't I do it now?" 

Doctor Akopian leans forward. "Well, what do you think is different in your life since then?" 

"I dunno. Moving here. And," she shrugs, trying to look casual, "my friends." 

"They really do care about you."

"Yeah. They do." Rebecca hesitates. "They don't know everything, though."

"You mean about Robert?"

Suddenly, Rebecca realizes she can't breathe. She stares at Akopian, unsure whether to feel betrayed or angry or afraid, unable to feel anything except the crush of asphyxiation. 

"You know about that?" She dislodges the words from her throat like pebbles. 

Akopian nods. "I read your file," she says, voice calm as ever. 

"Shit," Rebecca exhales. She presses her palms to her eyes, then takes them away, blinking as though suddenly waking up. "Okay. I am sorry you had to see that, but it is not an accurate representation of who I am as a person. I was young, and I thought I was in love, and I was, like, really weird and dramatic —"

"You were in pain," says Doctor Akopian. 

Rebecca goes silent. "Yeah," she says after a moment. She lets out a bitter laugh. "No one's ever acknowledged that before."

"That must have been hard."

"Yeah."

For a second, Rebecca debates whether to tell her. She chances it. "I'm still in pain," she says. "I mean, I keep trying to do the right thing — to drink smoothies, and do my job, and listen to feminist gym playlists and yadda yadda yadda. But no matter what I do, there's this fear that everything will fall apart. And I think, why bother doing anything if it's futile anyway? I'm just going to crumble in the end, and everyone will see I should never have tried at all."

"A sort of imposter syndrome?"

"Yeah. But... about being a person."

"Well, the good news is, I can certainly confirm that you're a person. But the more difficult fact is, it's not my opinion about that matters."

Rebecca quirks half her mouth in an expression of bemusement. 

"Your opinion matters," Akopian clarifies. "If you're able to validate your own experiences, other people's judgments won't hold so much power over you."

"I don't know," says Rebecca. "I mean, I get what you're saying. That would be nice. But it's not that easy."

"Again, not easy. But worthwhile."

"When I was a kid, my mom taught me this trick. She's a paralegal — she always said that if it hadn't been for my dad, she would have been a full-fledged lawyer, that she didn't want me to make the same mistake. She had this mantra — 'Good enough is never enough.'"

Doctor Akopian looks at her, and Rebecca laughs. "I know: yikes. But still... she was good at what she did. I never got along with her, but I always respected how hard she worked.

"In high school, when my anxiety started getting really bad, she sat me down and said, 'Rebecca, I'm going to let you in on a secret. If you really want to succeed, you need to look at all the work you do and imagine it was done by your worst enemy. Pinpoint the flaws, tear them to pieces, until there's nothing you could possibly criticize. Then you'll know it's good.' It was the only time she really talked to me, instead of just bossing me around. So I tried it and..." She throws up her hands. "It worked. Any flaws in my paper? God, what idiot wrote this. Second highest score at mock trials? Look at that loser who couldn't get first. And I just kept doing that, and it got me into Yale, and Harvard, and the firm. It got me everything anyone could possibly want."

"Was it what you wanted?"

"It's never really mattered what I wanted. Like, the one time I tried..." She trails off. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"That's my job."

Rebecca takes a breath. "I'm worried that even if things had worked out with Josh, I'd still feel like this. This... torn-up emptiness inside." She meets her therapist's eyes. "Does the pain ever stop?"

"No feeling is permanent."

"Thank God."

"Though that means no positive feeling is permanent, either. A lot of people believe that if they're happy in one moment then they'll never have problems again."

"Oh, pshaw, who would believe that?" says Rebecca.

Akopian looks at her. "You'd be surprised," she says evenly. 

On the table next to her, Rebecca draws lines in the zen garden, sketches a curly-haired stick figure self portrait. She draws more squiggles, crosses herself out. 

After a moment, Doctor Akopian speaks. "There's no way of completely avoiding pain. But it doesn't have to negate your positive emotions, either. You can find what matters to you, notice those moments when you're happy, and hold onto those. What's something good in your life right now?"

Immediately her mind goes to that night with Valencia, climbing the pretzel, that calm and then the shock of running, together. Warmth spreads through her chest. "Hanging out with Valencia," she says, carefully omitting the destruction-of-property aspect. 

"Great. So there's your homework — spend some time with someone who matters to you, and write down how you feel about it."

"That's it? Just hang out?"

"That's it. Try to have some fun — doctor's orders." She pencils Rebecca's next appointment into her calendar. "I'd also like you to check out this group." She hands Rebecca a business card. "They specialize in dialectical behavioral therapy."

"In what-what?"

"Dialectical behavioral therapy. They focus on emotional regulation, mindfulness, interpersonal effectiveness — skills that are useful for everyone, but which I think will particularly benefit you."

Rebecca takes the card, eyeing it as though it might bite her. "I don't know if I have time for this. It seems pretty hardcore."

"Well, you've said your mood swings can be an issue. And that you can be somewhat obsessive."

"Some might say that's part of my charm."

"Please at least go once to check it out. If you don't like the group, we can talk next time and come up with another plan."

Rebecca sighs. "Okay. Fine." 

The doctor smiles. "Thank you. Now, was there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

Rebecca thinks of that cliff. How she'd stood, abandonment collapsing her into nothing but pain and the need to make it stop by any means necessary. Feeling it leak out of her: her intensity, her "drama," her "craziness," her not-good-enough-ness. Her self. She felt herself poisoning everything around her, seeing the worried expressions on her friends' faces, knowing it was all her fault. 

They'd seen her now. The parts of her that she'd spent her whole life trying to obliterate. "Dramatic," "attention-seeking," "crazy." The thoughts echoed so loudly she felt as though her head would break in half. All the things she'd been called over the years by the people who really saw her, who realized she was too needy, too much, fundamentally _fucked up._

She could escape New York, but never herself. Wherever she went, her personality followed her. 

Paula, Heather, Darryl, Valencia... now everyone saw who she was. And now they would run. 

And yet, as she stood on the cliffside, no one turned away. 

Paula had taken her hand. And Valencia drove her home. Even after all that, her friends had been there for her. They still were. 

_They really do care about you._

In a way, that's harder to accept than all the self-loathing thoughts. Those are familiar. Being genuinely liked for who she is... Rebecca doesn't know how to deal with that. It sounds too good to risk hoping for. Too much to risk losing. 

She takes a deep breath, presses her shoes hard against the floor of Doctor Akopian's office. _Grounding techniques._ She looks down at her nails and realized she's chipped off most of the paint, glitter littering her lap. 

"Alright?" asks Doctor Akopian. 

"Yeah. Not great, but... safe. You're right, I do have good people in my life. There is love in my life, Josh or no Josh. Things just hurt right now."

"I'd be worried if they didn't. The pain means you're processing." 

"Thanks. Do you think I need to tell my friends everything? I mean, about Robert?"

"That's up to you. You certainly have a right to your privacy — though you may be surprised that people are more understanding than you expect. You've already been through a lot together, and they've supported you throughout." 

"You're gonna tell me that if someone really loves me, they'll accept me for myself, right?"

"I'd go a step further and say they already do."

*

After therapy, Rebecca steps into her car and stares out the windshield, the note of referral to the DBT clinic clenched in her palm. 

Doctor A always takes everything so seriously. It's exhausting. 

Slowly, Rebecca exhales a breath she didn't know she had been holding. 

Okay. This is real life. 

Now what happens?

She checks her cell phone, sees that Valencia has sent a snapchat. In the video, V grins as the camera, shifts the screen to the neon sign of the very exclusive sushi place, then back to her face. _Three days,_ she mouths, making a clinking motion with an imaginary glass, then blowing a kiss. 

Rebecca smiles watching the video, brushing away the moisture that has once again mysteriously appeared in her eyes.

Yeah. She _does_ have pretty awesome friends.

Before she can second-guess herself, Rebecca clicks the icon to dial Valencia's number. 

"Hello?"

"Hey," says Rebecca, "I was wondering if you mayhaps —" (her nervousness, for some reason, prompts an old-timey accent. She catches herself before a _m'lady_ slips out) "want to hang tonight? Like, we could watch _Hocus Pocus_ or whatevs." 

" _Hocus Pocus_ in September?"

"Sure! Isn't it always a good time for a cult classic comedy-horror-fantasy film featuring the dramaturgic flair of Bette Midler?"

"Oh, uh, okay. Sure, sounds good. I'll come by at seven?"

"Great! We shall partake in cinéma, rosé, and an exquisite salád experiénce." _Rebecca, what are you doing? Stop saying words. That's not even French, or... any language._

"Cool," says Valencia. "See you then."

"Ciao."

"Oh, and Rebecca?" Valencia pauses. "Just... I can't believe I'm saying this, but it doesn't have to be a big thing, okay? It's been a long day, we can just, you know. Chill." 

"And chill it shall be." 

After hanging up, Rebecca rests her head against the steering wheel, feeling her heart pound. 

Then she reaches for her phone once again, opens the internet browser and into the search engine types _greatest salad ever._

Rebecca Nora Bunch has never done anything half-assed. And though she may not know much else about herself, at least she's always had that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, thank you so much for reading! I just finished watching tonight's episode (Season 3 Episode 6). I'm not sure I've ever related to a character as much as I do to Rebecca, especially in these last few episodes. As a result, I tried to do something a bit different with this chapter, going more into the psychology, because I didn't want to do a disservice to such a complex character, whose story has meant so much to myself and others. The next chapters will focus more on the romance aspects, but I wanted to show more of Rebecca's inner life first. Not to give my whole life story, but I also struggle with BPD, and watching the show, I felt incredibly validated to see a character face similar challenges as I do, and come through it with hope, even if it's not an easy journey. I hope I can manage to capture some of that in this story.
> 
> Thank you all for the comments and kudos so far! It has meant so much to me and been hugely encouraging. I hope you continue to enjoy this story, and please let me know your thoughts!


	5. oh my god, I think I like you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valencia thinks about how Rebecca has changed her life — and what to do about the feelings she's developing for her. The two spend an evening together, and Rebecca realizes there's more to Valencia than she thought. But is the feeling of exploding glitter worth the risk of possible shrapnel?

"Fuck," gasps Valencia as she shifts out of balance. A muscle spasm stabs through the hand she's been using to hold herself in the air, and for a split-second she is weightless, waiting for the fall — and then she hits the mat with a smack. 

"Ow." Rubbing her elbow, she props herself into a sitting position, nerves still tingling where she landed on her side. She closes her eyes and tries to regain her composure, resolves to take a breather before going back into wounded peacock position (a name that feels particularly apt right now). Stretching out her arms and legs, she takes a deep breath, straightens her spine, and thanks God she isn't livestreaming this session.

What is she going to do about Rebecca?

And what is she going to do with _herself?_

She opens her eyes and forces a smile — smiling releases endorphins! Science says that, and the health gurus say that, and she herself says that to her not inconsiderable number of Instagram followers (not that she does it for the follower count, of course). She concentrates on her smile, on her posture. Pulling back the strands of hair that escaped her ponytail, she smiles, smiles, smiles. This is what happy looks like. She is going to radiate tranquillity if it kills her. 

She reaches for her phone, turns on the camera to face her. Staring back at her is a woman with a nervous glint in her eyes and a grin more crazed than serene.

With a groan, Valencia drops the smile and tosses the phone aside. "Fuck," she says again, indulgently, since no one is watching. Cursing is off-brand. Groaning is off-brand. But her brand no longer feels as important as it once did.

A year ago, she knew who she was. Or at least, she thought she did. Yes, her relationship with Josh wasn't exactly satisfying, but after fifteen years together that was normal, right? To wonder if there could have been more to your relationship, to your life? And in between the stretches of monotony, there would be those sweet moments when she remembered why she loved him — when he drove to the all-night grocery store at three a.m. to buy her a mango and her favourite bottled water, when they were talking and he'd suddenly pause and look at her as though suddenly seeing her and his eyes lit up, when she complained about lack of enrolment in her class and he showed up the next day, struggling through the poses but grinning whenever he got it right, no idea what he was doing but really, really trying. 

Those moments got farther apart year by year, but she held on to them, close to her heart: _this is why I'm doing this._ And yes, she flinched when he touched her, but she just wasn't the cuddly type. Wasn't he the best she could ask for? Josh was handsome, and popular, and he had a great body, and... okay, fine, she cared about the loser, he was a _good guy,_ okay? 

But sometimes, horribly, she found herself wishing he wasn't. Wished he didn't make her feel so guilty for wanting more, though she couldn't put her finger on what exactly "more" meant. Was she really the demanding bitch Josh's friends thought she was? Was she impossible to please? She'd shaken off the thoughts and her restlessness with cardio, crunches, dancing and snapchats and rare furtive carb-binges necessitating even more cardio. If her life didn't feel satisfying, she just needed to work harder. Right? 

She was Valencia Perez: West Covina's best yoga teacher, Instagram legend, alpha girl, the doesn't-do-humour girlfriend of Josh Chan. Prom queen to his king. She was a picture of success. She was happy. 

In theory. 

And then Rebecca changed everything. 

Since high school, Valencia had devoted her life to maintaining the perfect body, the perfect relationship, the perfect internet presence. She'd worked her ass off to get where she was. But sometimes, she couldn't help but wonder if she even wanted to be there. 

It wasn't, like, constant misery. But the nights got long, and Josh would be out with his friends — which was fine, she didn't really get along with them anyway — and she'd lay in bed alone, Vampire Weekend's soft, wistful songs playing through her earbuds, and she couldn't help but ask herself: _is this all there is?_ She'd lay on her side and watch shadows climb the wall, listening to Ezra Koenig croon about longing for something he never quite put into words. 

And then Rebecca hurricaned into town and threw out all the rules. She became Valencia's first female friend since high school — maybe Valencia’s first real friend, period. Rebecca wanted to get to know her, wanted to hear what she had to say, wanted to spend time with her. Valencia had never thought of herself as interesting. Hardworking, yes, Attractive, sure. But never interesting.

Rebecca made her feel like she could be someone more. Someone who made jokes, who had friends, who didn't view every other woman as a rival. Someone who went out to dance because it was fun, not because she had to prove, constantly, that she was cool enough, fit enough, desirable enough, good enough. Someone who could be happy. Someone who could just _be._

Rebecca made Valencia wonder if maybe — just maybe — she wasn't selfish to want something more the life she’d been living. Or at least, something different.

She'd dedicated the last fifteen years to controlling herself — smiling through her frustration, ignoring her hunger pangs, dismissing Josh’s increasing distance with cutting remarks rather than letting him see her cry. Rebecca, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about being too much. Rebecca was too talkative, too emotional, too needy, too nerdy, too sexual — and people liked her anyway. And Valencia, despite herself, liked her too. For all Rebecca's mood swings, her impulsiveness, her deception (both self and otherwise), there was something genuine about her. When Rebecca loved something, whether it was a person or a feminist Twitter account or _Harry Potter_ , she didn’t hide it. She put herself into the world, tried with everything she had to connect to others. And yeah, it was messy. But it was real. She was one of the most vibrantly alive people Valencia had ever met. 

Valencia had spent her life trying to feel less, to want less, to need less, telling herself she preferred to be left alone and sometimes almost believing that. It felt like if she were to acknowledge her need, it would swallow her with its enormity. 

At first, she had wanted to hate Rebecca — so shameless in her neediness, so full in her emotions, getting a free pass for all her too-muchness while Valencia garnered nothing but resentment for all her efforts to stick to the rules. And then she realized it wasn't Rebecca she was angry with. 

Valencia had spent fifteen years in a relationship that wasn't working. Maybe she didn't know what she wanted. But it wasn't this.

Throwing out her lifeplan, her rulebook, fifteen years' worth of #goals... it was terrifying. But not as much so as continuing on the path she was on, paring herself down to nothing, pouring her soul into a life that was almost-but-never-quite-good-enough. Always wondering what could have been.

She would live up to the name she had given herself. She would be brave. 

And so, messy as it was, she called it off with Josh. Even as she knew, in losing him, she would also lose her certainty in who she was. Or maybe, since meeting Rebecca, she'd already lost that.

She wanted something more. And knowing Rebecca, she'd begun to realize that was possible. 

She was tired of being perfect.

Completing her stretches, she reminds herself: _I did this for a reason._ She had wanted this, this opportunity to realize who she was and what she wanted. 

So why is she so afraid of her feelings for Rebecca? 

Valencia progresses through some simple poses, no longer able to stay still. Okay, so she likes Rebecca. Big deal. She’s had crushes on women before — who hasn’t? But even thinking Rebecca’s name, those wide blue eyes and that unselfconscious smile the night on the pretzel fills her mind, that feeling of Rebecca's hand in hers, her skin awakening wherever Rebecca touched her —

Valencia’s heart quickens. Yes, she likes the attention from Rebecca, the way Rebecca makes her feel like she can be her best self, but she also likes… Rebecca. The time they spend together, talking about nothing in particular, yet feeling understood. Seeing her happy. The more time they spend together, the harder it is for Valencia to say goodbye, to go home alone, her blood still humming wherever Rebecca touched her. Rebecca is a touchy person; kissing her cheek, embracing her, holding her hand. And unlike with Josh, when Rebecca touches her, Valencia never flinches. 

What she feels for Rebecca... it feels real. That kind of breath-catching, heart-racing, world-brightening closeness she’s always longed for. And maybe that's infatuation, but it doesn't change the fact that she genuinely enjoys Rebecca's company, talking and laughing and even being in silence with her. It isn’t like what she had with Josh — it’s totally off-plan, off-brand, confusing and unscripted and fills her with a kind of anxiety she's never had to deal with before.

And a kind of hope. That's even harder — the thought of how _good_ things could be. Valencia finds herself daydreaming about kissing her, Rebecca’s soft lips pressed to hers and parting as Valencia draws her close. But what really makes her heart catch in her throat is when she imagines their life together: how it would feel to wake up beside Rebecca, to make breakfast together, and the next night fall asleep in her arms again. Valencia Maria Perez is head over heels. And she has no clue how to handle that. 

Especially since she doesn't know if Rebecca feels the same.

Perfectionism has always been Valencia's shield against shame and uncertainty. But she doesn’t know how to be perfect in this situation, and while she isn’t ashamed of her feelings, they’re more vulnerable than anything she’s felt in a long time. The raw love — _like,_ she corrects herself — that she feels for Rebecca is more than she knows how to handle. But she wanted something real, and this… well, she doesn't know if she's ever felt anything realer.

With Josh she had curated the relationship, like a livestream, like an event, like — yes, even Rebecca’s wedding. Presentation overtook substance. But with Rebecca, she can just be. She doesn’t need to be flawless and distant and constantly _on._ Rebecca wants to know the real her, whoever that is. And Valencia wants to know the real Rebecca, too. 

Rebecca has undeniably changed her life. Telling her how she feels might turn out better than anything Valencia could have planned. 

Or it might be a disaster. 

She tightens her muscles, props herself up into destroyer of the universe pose and tries to hold still. 

A half-minute in, her phone rings and she races to answer it, a swell of excitement in her chest. Rebecca’s the only one who ever calls her.

Sure enough, Rebecca’s voice rings through the cell, inviting Valencia over for _Hocus Pocus_ and dinner. 

“Sure, sounds good,” says Valencia, keeping her voice steady. On the other end, Rebecca sounds flustered — but Rebecca is so constantly flustered Valencia can’t actually tell if it means anything. 

Is it a real date? A cute friend date? Rebecca tends to go overboard, but this time, more than Instagrammed perfection or pretzel-criminality or dance-club glitz, Valencia wants something quiet. To just appreciate Rebecca’s company. To try to gauge what her friend feels, and whether to tell her what she’s feeling herself. To be with someone she cares about as they both try to figure out their next steps.

The two say goodbye, and as Valencia hangs up, she catches sight of herself in the reflection of her phone screen. The same nervous eyes as before. But this time, the smile is genuine.

Ninety minutes to get ready. She leans back into savasana, the final pose of her routine. Lying flat on the mat, she tries to release the tension in her muscles, to soften her back and sink down, down, down.

All she has to do is be still with her own thoughts. 

It's always been the hardest pose for her.

*

As Rebecca enters her apartment, she finds Heather at the table, seated in front of her laptop with a bottle of desert wine on the chair beside her. The wine is wearing a stylish scarf and a pair of sunglasses. Rebecca doesn't ask questions.

As Rebecca unloads armloads of groceries, Heather explains, "I got so bored I answered all my fan mail and ran out of Miss Douche social media to manage. So now I'm managing social media for this wine I found in the shower. I think I could really make a career of this."

Rebecca glances at the screen. “You made a Facebook page for Abandoned Dessert Wine?”

Heather pats the bottle. "She already has twelve friends. Oh, thirteen now."

"Well, I’m glad one of us is having a productive day."

Heather eyes the mountains of vegetables Rebecca is piling around the kitchen, a verdant jungle accumulating over every surface.

"So what did you do? Also, what are you doing?"

"Oh, I promised V I'd make her the world's greatest salad, but according to the internet all the 'world's greatest salad's mostly consist of bacon and cheese, so I bought every ingredient she likes and now I'm improvising."

"So now we have, like, twenty kinds of lettuce."

"And chard, rappini, borage, chevril, arugala, endives, kai-lan, and amaranth."

"I'm ninety percent sure you made some of those words up."

Rebecca races around the kitchen, dices a pile of parsley and tomatoes, puts something on to boil and something else in the oven. One of those elevated moods Heather used to document for her psych class (those moods can be nice, now that Heather lives with her; Rebecca cleans everything. Though she also goes online shopping and fills up the house with boxes, so it's kind of fifty-fifty).

"How was therapy?" says Heather.

"Good," says Rebecca, too quickly, adding another tray and adjusting the temperature.

"You know, you haven't really been, like, around much lately," says Heather.

"Yeah, ya know, work is hectic, and I've been spending a lot of time with V."

"Yeah, I noticed." The two have been getting closer, and on one hand that's fine — Heather isn't exactly wildly social, but she likes them both. If they want to go out on escapades and then tell her about it after, that's cool. Besides, she's enjoying the quiet time she now has to chat on the phone with Hector, that cute friend of Josh's. 

But she gets the inkling there's something going on between Rebecca and Valencia, and while she's happy for them, she kind of wonders — and worries — what a relationship would look like between two of the most intense people she knows. They're good people, but they both have their issues, and she doesn't want either — or both — of her best friends to get hurt. 

_I'm here for you,_ she wants to say, watching Rebecca flutter over pots and pans. But she knows Rebecca is tired of hearing that from everyone. She'll have to use her rich vocal range and dazzling sense of humour instead. "So you have no underlying issues to address, and now you're baking Valencia an insane salad," she says flatly.

"You know I don't like that word, but yes." 

"Okay. Well, I'll be in my room Instagramming this bottle in different outfits." She gazes at Abandoned Desert Wine. "I think she'd look good with an eyebrow piercing, don't you?"

"Totally," says Rebecca, definitely not listening — the Rebecca she knows would never let that slide without asking which part of the wine constituted an eyebrow. Also, she'd probably want the last sip. 

"Have a good night. And uh, if you want to talk about anything" — Heather gestures vaguely at the wall — "I live here."

"Oh. Um, thanks." Rebecca smiles confusedly, salutes her, then looks even more confused by her own reaction.

Okay then. Now that they're both feeling equally awkward, Heather retreats to her room, laptop pinging as Ms. Wine receives another friend request.

*

An hour later, the doorbell rings as Rebecca is setting down the final bowl in a garden of rainbow salads. She races to the door and ushers Valencia into her home. 

"Hey." V smiles, a bouquet in her arms, and leans in to kiss Rebecca on the cheek. 

"Ooh, what are these?" says Rebecca after returning the kiss. She examines the flowers, vibrant petals in purple and pink.

"Well, the lavender is calming, and the white chrysanthemum is for happiness, and this —" she points to a plant with sunset-coloured petals — "is protea. For change and transformation. Figured we could all use some good luck."

"I feel pretty lucky right now," says Rebecca, as she goes to set the flowers in water. 

"You made all this?" says Valencia, following her into the kitchen, taking in the array of fruits, vegetables, and multicoloured leaves. Slices of starfruit and strawberry, scents of honey and roasted almonds, a pitcher of iced tea with fresh lemons.

"Yeah, you know, I wanted to do something nice for you. You've really been here for me lately. And it was fun, thinking of things you would like."

"Well, clearly you know me. This is beautiful."

As they fill their plates, Rebecca pours them both a glass of the lemon-jasmine tea Valencia likes. She'd debated picking up some rosé to take the edge off — _why am I so nervous around her lately?_ — but decided that, tonight, she'd rather be fully attentive to their time together. 

"You know," says Valencia once they're seated, using her fork and knife to cut a mango, "I've been thinking about doing more party planning. It's cool, having this scene in your head, and making it a reality."

"You should. You'd be really good at that."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, you're creative, you're detail-oriented, you have incredible taste — you'd do a great job."

Valencia smiles. "Thanks," she says.

"You know, it kind of reminds me of the drama classes I used to take — bringing the scene into reality. I really loved it."

"Why did you stop?"

Rebecca laughs, even though no one's said anything funny. "You know, it wasn't practical — took up a lot of time, I had LSATs, you can't really make a career out of acting—"

"The Rebecca I know does not give up that easily."

"No, but..." She swirls a leaf of spinach around her plate. When she speaks her voice is quiet. "I don't know. When everyone is telling you who you are, who you should be... sometimes it's just easier to listen to them."

More gently, Valencia says, "Everyone in this case meaning your mom?"

"Yeah. I get that she's twisted, but she's persistent." Rebecca gives a short laugh. "I mean, if you think _I'm_ stubborn—"

"I do. It's one of the things I like about you."

"Well, I'm just saying it's not always a fun thing. Not being able to let go. And, regardless of what my mom says, disappointing her isn't something I do on purpose."

"Maybe it should be," says Valencia. When Rebecca's brow furrows, she adds quickly, "I just mean, you say she's always trying to change you. And I like you the way you are. You're a good person."

_You don't know about Robert._

"Thanks," says Rebecca, unable to meet her eyes.

Valencia slides her hand across the table, places it atop Rebecca's. "This is really nice," she says. "Thanks for having me over." 

And Rebecca, despite the blossom of anxiety that unfurls in her chest, means in when she says, "I'm glad you came."

They pour more tea and bowls of fruit salad, and soon Valencia is seated on the sofa while Rebecca sets up the movie and then joins her, curling up next to her under the blanket. As _Hocus Pocus_ plays, they interject with laughter and favourite quotes they've memorized, and gradually, Rebecca's anxiety dissipates. She leans her head on Valencia's shoulder and sighs contentedly. Valencia puts her arm around Rebecca's shoulders, and Rebecca leans in, feeling safer than she has in a long time. 

When the movie draws to a close, an advertisement comes on for a _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ marathon on the space channel. 

Valencia's eyes light up. "Oh my God, I used to watch this everyday after high school."

"Really?" 

"Yeah! I really identified with Buffy."

"Really? I would have guessed Cordelia — the cool, popular type."

"Please. I'm a leader. If someone's going to stop the apocalypse, I'm making sure it's done right." 

Rebecca grins.

"What? Why is that funny?"

"Nothing, it's just sweet, seeing you get all excited about something. And it's... not what I expected, you watching vampire shows. I assumed you would have been out, like, going to awesome parties every night with all your cool friends."

"No. There was mostly just Josh, and he was always at dance practice. I told you, girls were jealous of me — I spent most nights doing yoga and watching _Buffy._ "

"But you were prom queen!"

"Yeah, well, I was popular, but that didn't mean I had a lot of friends."

"Isn't that... what that... means?"

"Not exactly." Valencia speaks slowly, running her fingers along the small black jewel on her necklace. “I'm good at keeping up appearances. Like, I did everything right — I had status — but most people would have been glad to see me fall. You don't end up liking humour very much when it's always at your expense."

"V, I'm sorry."

Valencia doesn't reply. Rebecca feels herself rambling, "Kids are the worst. There was this group of popular kids who tormented me, so I used to fantasize about stealing pets up from the popular people and then dressing the pets up like the popular people. I even had a song about it."

"What?"

"Nevermind. I just mean —" Rebecca takes a breath, — "It's hard, when people make fun of you. You didn't deserve that."

"It's fine. I mean, it wasn't that bad. Just... you know that feeling when you’re trying to do everything right, but still no one really likes you?”

Rebecca can't say she's ever been popular. But she remembers the tightrope of her college experience, that constant need to walk a perfect line, one misstep a recipe for disaster. How, even if it was only in her mind, it felt like there was always a crowd gathered below — her mother saying she wasn't trying hard enough, her classmates who both envied and resented her, Robert and Josh and all the other exes who said she was crazy or weird or dramatic — always watching, always gossiping, always waiting for her to fall. Every moment felt like a struggle between absolute perfection and a shame so deep it might kill her. 

"Well, screw them," says Rebecca. "I like you." 

“Thanks." Valencia tilts her head, looking at Rebecca. "You know, with you… It’s like I don’t have to pretend. Like I can be myself, and you're okay with that. It's new." She shrugs, smiles. "It’s nice.”

"Well, I think your self is pretty damn awesome," says Rebecca, smiling back as she slides her hand into Valencia's. "Look, I don't know if this is true, but my therapist says I sometimes idealize people — that I build up this idea of them in my mind, and then I'm disappointed when I get to know them and they aren't the person I invented. But with you — you're always surprising me, but it's a _good_ thing. The more I learn about you, the more I like you. And I like you a lot."

Valencia lifts her hand and kisses it. "M'lady."

"Hey!" Rebecca groans, jokingly swatting at her, "no making fun of my awkwardness when we first met. I thought we were having a moment."

V grins, "Oh, we were. But I couldn't resist."

"Oh god, that was embarrassing."

"Hey, I thought it was cute. Confusing, but cute. Besides, I didn't have enough girl friends back then to be a hundred percent sure women didn't just do that at the grocery store."

"Well, now you know. I'm a weirdo."

"Yeah, but you're my weirdo."

Rebecca's heart speeds up, her skin growing warm. It's not a bad feeling, though. "Okay, well, you also have this secret geek side. Vampire slayer."

Valencia looks at Rebecca, the light in her eyes dancing, smiling that special way she does when she's comfortable. "Maybe I do. And I think you like it."

Rebecca looks into those dark, luminous eyes, their deep pools behind the black curves of her eyelashes. She could get lost in those eyes. 

_You can find what matters to you, notice those moments when you're happy, and hold onto those._

"What?" says Valencia, with a confused smirk. Rebecca jolts, wonders how long she's been staring.

"Nothing. It's just... I'm trying to memorize this moment, so I can go back to it. I'm just really happy right now."

"Me too," says Valencia quietly. Tentatively, she lifts a hand to Rebecca's cheek, brushes back a strand of her hair. Rebecca moves closer to her, closing her eyes, unsure who initiated it but suddenly knowing what she wants. And then Valencia's lips are on hers, and their hands are tangled in each others hair, pulling closer, their lips parting. Rebecca's nerves light up where Valencia touches her; one hand at the back of her head, the other tracing the curve of Rebecca's spine. 

Pushing together, they lean back on the sofa. Rebecca trails kisses down Valencia's neck, along her collarbone, while V's hands run down her back, their hips pressing together, and Valencia gasps, and then they're kissing again, Rebecca's brain and body a flurry of sparks. She doesn't want to feel anything but this. This closeness. Valencia.

They break apart, breathless. Sitting up on the sofa, Rebecca smooths down her tangled hair. Beside her Valencia smiles unsteadily, but the light in her eyes is real —

_She might really have feelings for me._ I _might have feelings for her. Oh my God._

— and then Rebecca is shaking, because she knows this: this glitter-exploding feeling, this addiction. She knows it so well. And she knows so well how it ends. 

Valencia's smile turns to concern, and she lays a hand on Rebecca's knee. "Hey. You okay?"

"I — I should go to sleep. I have a busy day at work tomorrow."

"Oh. Yeah, of course, me too." She fixes her own messy hair, adjusts her necklace. "Was that — was that too much?"

Rebecca stands up, pacing. "No, it was good, I just... I need... I need to think for a bit. To... figure some things out."

Valencia nods. "Okay." Rebecca searches her face for signs of anger, or annoyance, but there's only concern, which feels even worse.

"Hey," says Rebecca. "We're still on for sushi, right?"

"For sure." Valencia smiles, a short sharp flash (nervous? annoyed? embarrassed? Rebecca's heart clunks in her chest), straightens her shirt and finger-combs her hair, even though it's already perfect.

As Valencia begins to walk to her car down the street, Rebecca calls out, "V?"

She turns her head. 

"I had a really nice time tonight."

"Yeah." Valencia says. "Yeah, I did too."

"Text me when you get home safe, okay?"

"Always." Valencia walks out into the night, her heels clicking on the concrete. The moon's silver shines off the sequins of her shirt as she gets smaller beneath the blue-black sky and the green-black trees. Turning away, Rebecca closes the door, sighing as she leans back against it, sliding down until she's sitting on the floor. 

Head to her knees, she feels her heartbeat reverberate through her chest, her toes, her fingertips, every nerve still alight. Her blood hums, a glitter of stimuli, and the air seems to vibrate wherever it touches her. She hasn't felt this good in months. Or this afraid. 

Because she knows what she'll do for this feeling. And she knows what she'll do if she loses it. If she loses Valencia. She can't go through that again — and it would be even worse than losing Josh, because she'd also be losing one of her best friends. How can she risk that? She knows what she's capable of. She can't do that to Valencia.

At some point, she must have gotten up from the floor because she realizes she's pacing. That dissociation again. See? She can't control herself, and it's not fair to inflict that on V. How could she do that to someone she cares about? Really, really cares about?

Valencia makes her feel alive. She can't imagine her life without her. But that's the problem: relationships are her drug of choice, and she doesn't trust herself not to overdose. 

But if Valencia likes her, has feelings for her, and Rebecca... she hadn't put it into words, but that gold glow that spreads through her when Valencia laughs, that light in V's eyes that makes the world feel full and beautiful and possible, their late-night conversations that rejuvenate both of their zest for living, the way she wants, more than anything, for V to be happy... yes, she likes Valencia. Of course she likes Valencia. And okay, maybe her emotions are addictive, but she wants to be there for V, to help her and support her and be with her. How can that be wrong? 

Her homework: _Spend some time with someone who matters to you, and write down how you feel about it._

She digs in her bag until she finds the notebook she bought for therapy a few months ago. Still in its wrapping. Peeling off the plastic, she opens it to the first page and, with a shaking hand, begins to write. 

_Oh my God, I think I like her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you everyone for the comments and kudos on the last chapter. It meant a lot to get such warm feedback when writing about such a personal topic, and I really appreciated the encouragement. I hope you enjoyed this chapter as well. If you have any comments, I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	6. never have problems again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valencia seeks dating advice from an unexpected source, while Rebecca turns to Paula for guidance. Rebecca and Valencia go on their first real date.
> 
> Featuring hand soap-related office drama, terrible reality television, and the Very Exclusive Sushi Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for references to canon-consistent disordered eating and body image issues.
> 
> P.S. Some of the dialogue in this chapter (you'll see where) is inspired by this post by bitendenciesrebeccabunch requested by poolsidescientist: http://bitendenciesrebeccabunch.tumblr.com/post/165210300307/fandom-aesthetics-rebeccavalencia-hogwarts-au
> 
> (If anyone writes this Slytherin power couple AU I will love you forever.)

The evening he receives one of the strangest phone calls of his twenty-eight years begins like many others in Joshua "White Josh" Wilson's life. After a long day at the gym, he goes over to Darryl's house to make dinner together, the two of them exchanging playful touches and sneaking kisses as they prepare the Whitefeather family recipes for fried squash bread and paella — a strange combination, but then again, so is a personal trainer and an older, newly-out lawyer. And despite their differences, the unlikely pair seems to work. As WhiJo chops onions, Darryl massages his shoulders and his gym-sore body relaxes into a comfortable tiredness.

But not too tired. As WhiJo finished chopping, he turns around and meets his Selleck-esque boyfriend with a kiss, careful not to get onion juice on him. 

This is always the best part of his day. And, as Darryl presses against him, their embrace deepening, he gets the sense the feeling is mutual. 

They break apart just in time as Madison clambers down the stairs for help proofreading a story she's written about Snaily Minaj performing a show with gastropod-Canadian musician Slimes. WhiJo goes to look at it with her while Darryl supervises the sizzling gourd-flour.

"You're so good with kids," Darryl sighs, gazing at him lovingly as Madison departs to type up the edits. WhiJo's smile falters. He returns to the stove, stirs the paella. 

Sooner or later, they're going to have to talk about this. But for now, he doesn't even want to think about... that. The future. _Their_ future. 

Darryl puts his arms around his boyfriend as he stirs, leans his chin on the younger man's shoulder. WhiJo tries to relax into his touch. The present is good. The two of them are good. Why ruin it by thinking about the hypothetical? 

Even if the hypothetical draws closer each day. Even if, eventually, at least one of them is going to have to change the future he has envisioned. 

Even if, these last few months, WhiJo has always seen that future as involving Darryl. 

WhiJo has never been the sentimental type; all his life, he's prided himself on his independence. Sure, he loves his friends, but even as a kid he knew there were things they couldn't understand. They always stood up for him when he was being bullied, Josh and Hector running to his defense and young Greg retaliating against insults with biting sarcasm — to be honest, neither WhiJo nor his detractors really understood a lot of Greg's remarks, but they got the gist, and he appreciated it. 

But even though WhiJo knew his friends would do anything for him, and vice-versa, they hadn't been targeted the same way he had. They didn't know the deep sense of shame and otherness he felt showing up to school, his weight scrutinized and mocked until it felt like not just his body but all of him was wrong and embarrassing. Which, whatever, was fine — he didn't want his friends to have to feel those things. But without knowing them, nor could they understand the force of determination, bordering on obsession, that fuelled him to get in shape, running laps around the track at recess and lifting weights in his room after class. A large part of that fuel was anger, both at himself and his classmates — he would be _better_ , he would _show them_ — but there was also something else, more vulnerable, something he wouldn't have admitted to. 

He set out to be the person he wanted to be: physically and mentally strong, unfazed by others' disapproval, disciplined and determined to build the life he wanted. And day by day, through sheer force of willpower, it seemed he had done it. Kids stopped making fun of him; in fact, they turned to admiring his (long rehearsed) confident demeanor and newfound volleyball skills. The hypocrisy irritated him — just pretend to be cool, and everyone seemed to forget all about the shy, outcast kid he'd been. But gradually, even he forgot he was pretending. By the time sixth grade rolled around, he was able to say, "screw it," to his classmates' judgement and come out as gay — but by that point, he was so popular that no one judged him anyway.

As an adult, he's the stable one, the guy his less self-assured friends come to for advice. The guy who talks down Josh when he spirals, the guy who encourages Greg in his sobriety, the guy who has it all figured out.

But somewhere, behind his chill-if-judgey exterior, the old insecurity still lingers. A part of him still needs to be liked. 

Okay, fine, he'll admit it — loved. And to love. He rails against the smarmy, heteropatriarchal, monogamist-picket-fence-cliché, but... he loves Darryl. The mix of comfort and excitement the other man awakens in him. The feeling of coming home. 

A few times, WhiJo has opened up to Darryl about his insecurities. The time WhiJo binged on fries after a stressful day with a client, and his self-loathing turned into self-deprecating humour that went a bit too far, and instead of laughing at him Darryl touched his arm and said, "Don't say such mean things about the man I love." The time WhiJo had a nightmare about being back in second grade, the other kids chasing him, and woke them both as he cried out. He couldn't stop shaking, though he knew how stupid it was, being upset about something that had happened so long ago.

But Darryl listened to his rambling without judgement, held him in the dark. After, he said, _I love you. I'm so sorry you went through that. You're perfect. You've always been perfect, no matter what anyone told you._

WhiJo's shoulders had crumpled with embarrassment — some people had real problems, what right did he have to be so self-involved? And yet, as Darryl comforted him, he felt at ease in a way he wasn't familiar with, as though the sea that buoyed him had finally calmed, and he hadn't even realized it had been storming.

He'd never been in a relationship like this before. Usually guys were into him for his looks; Darryl wanted to know all of him. And as independent as WhiJo was, Darryl showed him that sometimes it was okay to lean on others. 

_I love you too,_ he'd said back in the dark.

The thought of losing Darryl makes his insides ache.

Now, standing in the kitchen, Darryl asks, "What's wrong?" concern in his eyes as he runs a hand down WhiJo's jawline. 

"Nothing," he says, leaning in to kiss him. 

A couple hours later, homework edited, dishes cleared, and Madison tucked into bed, WhiJo has settled onto the sofa, Darryl snuggled into his shoulder, as the two discuss what to watch before bed. 

"I'm telling you," says Darryl, " _Catfished by a Drug Smuggler_ is surprisingly subtle and nuanced journalism."

Before he can formulate a reply, WhiJo's phone rings. 

He reaches for it, expecting Josh, who's been calling him a lot the past few weeks. Joining the priesthood hasn't gone as smoothly as Josh expected ( _wow,_ thinks WhiJo, _who could have seen that coming?_ ) and he's been phoning to discuss his doubts. While WhiJo doesn't condone the ridiculous situations Josh gets himself into, he always makes sure to pick up. 

But this time, it isn't Josh Chan on the other end. In fact, it takes him several seconds to identify the caller, because it's the last person he would expect. 

"Hello?"

"Hi," replies a woman's voice, a kind of purposeful brightness to it. Maybe a very forceful telemarketer, the kind who would keep other Josh stuck on the line for hours. "White Josh?"

Okay. Not a telemarketer. "Yeah?" he says, quirking an eyebrow at Darryl, who is already enthralled by drug smuggler hijinks. 

"I need a favour," says the woman.

Ah. Now he recognizes the voice. "Valencia," he says. Then, since she doesn't have enough experience with humour to identify sarcasm, adds, "To what do I owe this pleasure? Also, how did you get this number?" 

"I copied all of Josh's phone contacts when we were dating."

"That's... healthy."

"What? He wanted me to have as much backup as possible in case someone tried to 'bite me on Vampire Weekend.'"

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "So why are you calling me?"

Although he's known Valencia for almost two decades, he's pretty sure they've never had an actual conversation. Maybe Rebecca broke her sink, too. The two women have been hanging out a lot lately.

"I want your advice. It's about a... friend." There's a hesitation in her voice he hasn't heard before, a crack in her usual shiny hardness. She sounds almost flustered. Her words come out in a rush, like she's steeled herself to do this and is trying to get it over with as soon as possible. "I like her, okay? And I don't know if she feels the same, and last night I made a move, and I might have fucked everything up."

WhiJo stands, speechless, the phone a few inches from his ear; Valencia's voice had risen in volume as her anxiety mounted. It's more emotion than he's seen her show in all the years he's known her. Combined. He motions to Darryl that he has to take this call, and Darryl mouths back _okay._

As WhiJo walks into the kitchen, Valencia breaks the silence, her voice back to its usual confident veneer. "Anyway. I thought I'd ask you since... you know. I figured you'd have some experiences with these things."

"Valencia, did you phone me because I'm the only gay person you know?"

"No! Well, partly. But mostly... I don't have that many close friends, okay? Most of my friends are also friends with her, and you've always been sensible, and I really don't have anyone else to talk to. So... please."

_We're close friends in her mind?_ The initial shock is replaced by sympathy — by "close friends," she just means "friends," and whether the two of them are even that is... debatable. Not that her pride would ever let her admit that. And knowing that pride, no wonder this call is such a strain for her to make.

He's never been particularly fond of Valencia, to say the least. He'd assumed that disinclination stemmed from her being Josh's shallow, domineering girlfriend. Now he finds himself wondering if it's because she reminds him of himself: the part of himself that needs constant approval, that hides his own insecurity behind judging others. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. 

"Okay," he says, "just tell me the situation. Slowly this time."

She fills him in on the details: this new girl she'd met, how she gradually realized the feelings she had were more than friendship. How this girl makes her feel alive. How Valencia had kissed her, and the feeling had seemed reciprocal, but then things had been quiet, neither of them knowing what to say as they parted ways. 

Valencia never says a name, but WhiJo doesn't have to ask. Why is everyone in West Covina in love with a woman who doesn't even know how to use a garbage disposal?

But, though he doesn't understand their target, Valencia's feelings sound honest. There's a vulnerability in her voice he only _very_ rarely saw her show to Josh. 

"She's the best friend I've ever had," says Valencia quietly. "I don't want to lose her."

WhiJo glances into the living room. Darryl breaks his gaze from the television, smiles up at him, and WhiJo has to look away. "Yeah," he says. "I get it." 

He stretches his shoulder, tries to restore some sense of equilibrium before he speaks. "I think it's good to be honest." _Hypocrite,_ says the voice in his head. "You can't know how she's going to react — but if you're not up front with her, you'll never know. When you let someone into your life, you can't guarantee it's going to work out. But even if it works out differently than you expected, it can still mean something. And if you have the chance to make it work... you owe it to yourself to take that chance. Really connecting with someone — that's a rare thing. You shouldn't give that up without trying."

Several seconds of silence fall between them. Finally, Valencia says, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Really — I don't know how I'd even begin to explain this heart-to-heart to our friends."

"Oh please. They wish they were on our level of emotional intimacy."

"One conversation's worth."

"When you know what you're doing, that's all you need." He hears the smile in her voice and realizes she's making a joke. 

She really _has_ changed. Could it be that Rebecca, of all people, is actually good for her?

As he hangs up the phone, he reminds himself not to get too involved. Not his circus, not his monkeys. 

Still, he kind of hopes they work out.

Besides, as much mayhem as Rebecca brought to West Covina, she also brought Darryl into his life. No matter what the future brings, a part of him will always be grateful for that. 

"How's _Catfished by a Drug Smuggler?_ " he says, rejoining his boyfriend on the sofa.

"Oh, it's a good one. The smuggler is posing as an identical twin, but little does she know she's catfishing her _actual_ identical twin. See, that one's the narcotics agent, and that one's the drug lord. But I think they're maybe going to team up."

"Unlikely pairs," WhiJo mumbles to himself. 

"Hm?" says Darryl.

"Nothing," he says, and leans in to kiss his boyfriend.

*

"You slept with Vajazzlia?!" 

Paula's eyes blaze, her whisper almost a hiss as Rebecca pulls her into the hallway and away from their coworkers' cubicles. 

"Firstly: only in the literal sense; secondly: come on, you _know_ her name; and thirdly: _can we talk in private?_ " By the end of the sentence, Rebecca's voice is almost as frenzied as Paula's, as though her words are a substance escaping under immense pressure. Which is what it feels like. 

Paula grabs her hand and drags her into the womens' washroom, where they find a man singing to himself over the sink. "Changing the soap, changing the soap, change me up a piece of that hand soap bar —"

"George?" says Paula. "Why are _you_ here?"

His shoulders jump, spine stiffening as he turns and says, "Nathaniel has me changing the soaps to increase productivity. See, we've been using lavender, which promotes a sense of relaxation, and Nathaniel says a workplace thrives on terror."

"Well take your terror someplace else, we're having girl talk."

George scuttles off without question. Paula has that effect on people — Rebecca isn't sure at the moment whether or not to be grateful for that. Her friend isn't exactly renowned for her lack of judgementalness. But at least Rebecca can trust her to be direct. 

_Thatta girl,_ a familiar Southern voice chimes out in her subconscious. _Resisting the urge to seek out enablers? That's character growth!_ She cringes as Doctor Phil claws his way out of whatever cognitive cave she's had him buried in. 

Damn it, she used to be so good at repression. 

"Cookie? Are you okay?"

"Yeah," says Rebecca, shaking it off. 

"Okay, now tell me everything that happened." Paula takes her hands in a comforting gesture, and Rebecca finds the confidence to begin.

She starts once again with the day of the would-be wedding. How Valencia had been there for her, and she'd slept over at her place — "Platonically. Or, well, there was some cuddling, but sometimes women do that, since we're not bound up by the toxic masculinity that stigmatizes touch, and Professor Goddess made a really good point about the psychological impact of skin hunger —"

"Rebecca," says Paula, "I know you have a lot on your mind, but I can't give you advice unless you _actually tell me what's happening._ " 

"Right." Rebecca catches her breath and begins again, attempting to stick to the facts this time. After running through the events of the past several weeks, she concludes "...So then we kissed, and I freaked out, and now I'm still freaking out, and we're going for sushi Friday night unless these heart palpitations I'm currently experiencing turn into actual cardiac arrest. You know what, I'm actually also experiencing shortness of breath, and I think my arm hurts. Do I look unusually sweaty to you?"

"Rebecca, breathe." Paula's eyes widen, but when she speaks, her voice is even. "You're not dying. You've had panic attacks before."

"Why is there never pen vodka when you need it," Rebecca mutters. 

She doesn't intend Paula to hear, but the older woman responds, "Sometimes friendship has to fill the role of alcohol. Back to your situation." She smiles gently as she takes Rebecca's hand, "Cookie, it will be okay. I mean, you've been through this before, right? You were feeling close to her, and you kissed her... with all you've been through lately, she can't blame you for giving off mixed signals. You just have to calmly tell her you're not interested."

Rebecca concentrates on inhaling and exhaling. _It's impossible to be anxious if you're breathing correctly,_ one of her legion of past therapist once told her. She's pretty sure that's bullshit. But she's not currently feeling the confidence to claim with any certainty that, on top of all her other problems, she doesn't also suck at breathing.

"That's the thing, though," Rebecca says quietly, staring at her shoes. "I don't know if it's true that I'm not interested."

She forces herself to look up at Paula, into her eyes for hints of judgement — Paula was mad enough at her when Rebecca wanted to be _friends_ with Valencia, and now Rebecca's messed up the whole love story Paula planned for her with Josh, which was the whole thing that brought their friendship together in the first place... but she can't read Paula's expression, so she continues. "I mean, I don't know exactly _what_ I feel for her... but I feel _something_. And I get it, that I'm probably just in, like, a rebound headspace. But what I feel for her... it feels _good._ I really like her. I mean, I get that I make awful decisions, and my emotions are all over the place, and I'm impulsive, and I fall for people too quickly and I mess it all up and _I know._ But I just — I need you to tell me I'm not crazy."

"Oh Cookie." Paula's eyes soften, and Rebecca feels both reassured and guilty about the worry that appears in them. She touches Rebecca's face, a gesture Rebecca assumes is maternal though her own mother never did anything of the sort. "Of course you're not crazy. I'm just... surprised, I guess. I mean, it isn't the story I imagined for you. But you know what? It's not _my_ story. Rebecca, I just want you to be happy."

Paula lifts her hands in a gesture of "whatever," but a liberating whatever. "I mean, I wasn't thrilled when you wanted to be friends with Valencia, either — but you made it work. This is your life, and if something feels real to you — well, you're the one who knows best."

Rebecca feels herself tearing up. "Thanks, Paula. That means a lot to hear. You ever used her real name."

Paula rolls her eyes but smirks. "Yeah, well, I'm trying to be nicer. Did you know people have been calling me the office bitch?"

"No," says Rebecca, forcing her mouth into an o as she feigns surprise. For someone who's taken drama classes, it's not a very convincing performance. _Doesn't she have a mug that says, "Office Bitch?"_

But Rebecca doesn't have to perform when she says, "They don't know you like I know you. You're kind, and you're thoughtful, and you're brilliant. You're gonna be a kickass lawyer. And you're the best friend I could ever ask for. "

"Thanks, Cookie." She opens her arms and Rebecca pulls her into a tight hug.

The bathroom door creaks as a timid male voice calls out, "Rebecca? Are you th—"

"George, bother us one more time and I will rip off your arms and beat you with them," Paula calls out. The door closes and the two women continue their embrace.

Soon, Rebecca feels ready to be a person again. Back to a normal-ish heart rate, she reassures Paula that she's fine and will join her back at work in a few minutes. Turning to the mirror, she fixes her hair and eyeliner, reapplies a coat of lipstick.

Paula doesn't think she's crazy. Okay, so she has feelings for Valencia. That's okay. It might even turn out to be a good thing. After all, Valencia also seems to like her — like her enough to kiss her! — and that's.... pretty awesome. 

The warmth rises in her face as she remembers that kiss, the way Valencia's lips parted, her mouth soft and warm. Rebecca's hands running through her long soft hair and Valencia pulling her in, closer and closer. 

Her heart speeds up again and she resumes those calming breathing exercises. Maybe now isn't the best time for such thoughts. But she smiles.

She'll take a chance and see what happens. Despite all the flaws Rebecca sees in herself, a lack of risk-taking has never been one of her problems, so why start now? She likes Valencia. Valencia likes her. Why not go for it?

As Rebecca washes her hands, bubbles frothing in the warm water, a strong musky odour rises in the air and burns the back of her nasal passage. "Ugh, that smell _is_ terrifying." She checks the bottle of soap George left. "'Lone Wolf Earthquake?' How is that even a scent?" 

She chucks the bottle in the trash, replaces it with a bar of lavender hand soap she'd accidently-on-purpose pocketed at the mall yesterday while psyching herself up to talk to Paula.

Lavender is good for anxiety, so really, it was self-care.

_And we're back to denial,_ Doctor Phil pipes up. She mentally shushes him. 

She returns to her desk, proud of herself for looking Normal and Professional. Beside her papers, she sees a white box wrapped in a lavender bow. She opens it and finds a warm, fluffy pretzel. 

"That's what I wanted to tell you," says George from across the room. "A delivery guy dropped that off for you."

She notices a small white envelope tucked into the ribbon. She opens it to find a handwritten card, the letters penned in simple, elegant calligraphy. 

_To R,_  
Looking forward to our next adventure.  
—V 

As affection melts through Rebecca, she's more certain than ever that Paula is right. So what if developing feelings for Valencia wasn't in the plan? Neither was moving to West Covina. Neither was befriending Paula, or Darryl, or Heather. Neither were any of the best things in her life. She wouldn't trade them for any plan in the world.

Rebecca glances up at Nathaniel's office, sees he's busy lecturing George (probably about another soap-related emergency). She takes out her phone and texts V: _Thanks <3 Me too._

A few minutes later, her phone lights up with a flower emoji and _See you tomorrow._

Paula catches her eye across the room, and when Rebecca holds up the present, Paula gives her a thumbs up and a grin. Rebecca grins back. Although her heart is still racing, she gets the feeling she's finally doing something right. 

*

Friday takes forever to come around. Or maybe it arrives in the blink of an eye — neither Rebecca nor Valencia is quite sure time is doing. The days seem to pass glacially slowly, yet date night somehow arrives before either feels she's had an adequate chance to prepare.

In the days leading up, Rebecca tries on almost three dozen outfits, posing in her room and compulsively repositioning two full-length mirrors to examine herself from every possible angle. Just in case, for some reason, these shoes making the back of her left knee look weird is a dealbreaker. She's determined to prepare for every possibility, no matter how improbable. She's always excelled at first impressions, studied for dates with the same attention she put into preparing for the bar exam. She's not going to mess it up this time. Not when the stakes are so high.

Yet there are variables that make this situation different. For one thing, it's not a first impression; sure, she can memorize V's interests, discern the aesthetic that would appeal to her, adopt whatever attitude V likes to see. But Valencia actually knows her. No matter how good her performance, Valencia will recognize it as an act. The prospect fills her stomach with anxiety. 

And yet... maybe this could be a good thing. Valencia has seen her as she is, flaws and all. And V _likes_ her. Not the performance of Smart Capable Harvard-Educated Sexy Female Lawyer, but actually... her. Valencia has seen her dumped, seen her tired, seen her angry, and crying, and giddily obsessing over less-than-cool interests — and V still likes her. It's different, and new, and invigorating. It's not a type of openness she thought could be possible, not for her: to be seen for who she is still seen as worthwhile. It's totally different from her past relationships _(it's one date, don't get ahead of yourself, Rebecca)_. And although it's scary, it's... also a lot less lonely. To believe she can be with someone and not have to constantly hide parts of herself. Not have to wonder if, when the person sees who she truly is, they'll realize they never wanted her at all. 

Rebecca turns side to side, looks at herself in the silver lamé dress she'd bought back when she met Valencia, the one she'd worn when they first went out dancing together. When she'd thought that she wanted to _be_ Valencia, unable to otherwise make sense of the feelings inside her.

It does look good. And she knows Valencia likes it. But she takes it off, puts it back in the closet, tries on a short black dress instead. 

She'd bought this one in New York, on the shopping spree she embarked on the same day she purchased a one-way ticket to West Covina. A new wardrobe for a new life, a new Rebecca. She'd envisioned herself in this dress, dining with Josh in upscale restaurants, how it would complement the effortless cool of his tailored suit. That was before she accepted that Josh wasn't really into upscale restaurants or tailored suits ( _or me,_ she thinks, the self-deprecation now more reflex than anything), and he couldn't or wouldn't change himself to please her, no matter how much she tried to mold herself into a woman he could love. 

After all, wasn't that what love was? A willingness to anticipate someone's desires, to give them everything, to give _up_ everything? _Look how much I love you,_ she'd wanted to say. _Enough to throw away my whole life._

But maybe that sentiment didn't mean much when she'd spent her whole life running from herself. Maybe it wasn't even about love at all. 

She'd planned to go on a crash diet before wearing this dress out in public, secretly praying that going off her meds would induce a hypomanic exercise spree. Hell, she'd have settled for a sexy French depression killing her appetite; anything so that her mother's voice in her head would stop picking apart every angle of her body. But contrary to all her plans for New Rebecca, her episodes continued to fall more on the side of decidedly unsexy Swiss (chocolate) binge eating in her pajamas. Her instability always had tended towards too-muchness. 

There were moments when impulses towards her college eating disorder would creep up again, and although she had done a lot of work to get better, tried to feel proud for not relapsing, a part of her nagged that this resistance — even though it took so much willpower — was actually just laziness. Just another way she was failing.

She tries not to talk about her past bulimia, though when the anxiety-rambles kick in, occasionally she'll let slip a joke about it. It's not a part of her past she's proud of, not a version of herself she wants to see the light of day. Bad feminist as it may make her, she hates to think of anyone seeing her as _that girl_. She's tried so hard to prove she's not that needy, not that destructive, not that crazy. That would all be undercut if she admits she'd been — admits that she still sometimes is — driven by this desire to act against her own best interests. Against her own survival. 

She doesn't want to be that kind of person. The emptiness scares her, so she tries not to think about it.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, she catches her anxious expression. When she first tried on this dress in the store, she had felt good about herself. But trying it on the next day in her Manhattan apartment, she'd been self-conscious, resolved to only wear it once she'd shrunk down to the perfect version of herself. But here she is now, in her new life in West Covina, living in the future she'd romanticized. And she still looks like herself. 

Turning now, she examines herself from different angles, braces for the worst. But... she looks okay. Not perfect, maybe, but... not bad. Actually, kind of hot. Yeah, you know what? She's still got it. She looks like Rebecca Bunch, and maybe that doesn't have to be a bad thing. She thinks of the date coming up, catches herself smiling. It's not her flashing stage grin, or her coy tell-me-more smirk, or her seductive half-smile. It's unrehearsed, a bit nervous. But she means it. 

While Rebecca is searching through her wardrobe, Valencia is more high-strung than usual as she leads her students through various yoga poses. Thankfully, she also has her party planning business, which, bolstered by Rebecca's encouragement, she's begun setting up. She busies herself with getting the word out, emailing potential clients between classes, meticulously fine-tuning details as she proposes event plans. She's surprised how much she likes it; she'd forgotten she had this creative side, and she loves the feeling of the elements coming together with a _click._ She can trust herself to do things right — and at the moment, that sense of control is a relief. 

Rebecca's spontaneity is one of the things that drew Valencia to her. But without the familiar, heterosexual script — girl flirts, boy asks her out, etcetera — she's out of her element in a way she's never been before. It's a lot harder to be cool and aloof when you actually _care._ Her past relationships had been less about romance than other factors: gaining status, meeting the milestones for success, alleviating boredom. Hell, even just the company. She would have settled for a photogenic guy who didn't irritate the crap out of her, and even _that_ was hard enough to come by. 

Going on a date with Rebecca... well, this is new. And crazy as the situation may feel, it's exciting to realize she can be excited about dating. 

Besides, she's never been one for passivity, anyway. 

The day of the date, Nathaniel is in an especially irritable mood (Rebecca isn't sure whether that's a cause or an effect of him having spent the day sipping a radioactive green smoothie, his face scrunched up but claiming it was "delicious") and nearly makes her late as he interrogates her about a client. Thankfully, Paula sees her distress and creates a diversion by alerting Nathaniel that someone's replaced his terror-soaps, and Rebecca sneaks out just in time as George gets an earful _(sorry, George)_. Even so, she has to rush across the parking lot, drive home, and change with lightning speed in order to make it in time to pick up Valencia at her apartment. When she knocks, Valencia steps out wearing a deep blue dress and a radiant smile that makes Rebecca's breath catch. 

"How's your day?" says Valencia. She leans in to give her a peck on the cheek, but Rebecca miscalculates, turns her head and kisses Valencia on the mouth. At first she's embarrassed, though she quickly realizes it's a mistake neither of them really minds, to say the least. A blush creeps up Rebecca's cheeks as Valencia deepens the kiss, smiling at her with sparkling eyes when they separate. 

"Well now it's good," says Rebecca, slipping her hand into V's. As Valencia grins, Rebecca feels like the luckiest woman in the world. 

It also feels pretty cool as the guy at the Very Exclusive Sushi Place reads their names off the reservation list and undoes the velvet rope (velvet rope? This place is très legit), leading them to a table beside a window glittering with stars in a sea of night sky. Moonlight and candlelight dance off the silverware and in the glasses of rosé the waiter pours them, and even more than she enjoys the beauty of the scene, Rebecca enjoys watching Valencia take it all in. 

But the coolest thing of all is how natural it feels. As much as Rebecca had stressed about how to behave, they quickly slip into a dynamic that's... fun. God, she forgot flirting could be fun. How good it feels, to just talk, and laugh, and be with someone she really, really likes.

They talk about everything from Valencia's party planning, to Rebecca’s trip to Ghana, to _The Great Gatsby_ — despite the book's antisemitism, which Rebecca once wrote a paper on, they both agree that, aesthetically speaking, the jazz age was lit (a phrase Rebecca had heard Heather use). And as the conversation flows, that’s also an apt description of how Rebecca feels: like she's carrying a candle inside her chest, filling everything in her that had been hollow with a new, luminous warmth.

In the bubble and glitter of the evening, it's easy to imagine the moment as an elaborate musical number: the glissando of piano keys, her and Valencia harmonizing, flapper dresses and pearls and feathers — and yet, as the image starts to percolate in her mind, Rebecca pulls herself back to the room. To the taste of rice and wasabi, to her laughter, to Valencia's real smile as the two weave a tapestry of inside jokes.

For once, she doesn't need to fantasize. She's exactly where she wants to be.

The anxiety that usually strums her heartstrings is silent, and she has no trouble sticking to the single glass of wine she promised herself (since she's driving). For this rare moment, she's not nervous, or frantic, or overcome with the feeling of _something missing_. Valencia is laughing at her jokes, and that feels like everything she could possibly need.

At one point, Rebecca accidentally lets slip a _Harry Potter_ reference, and rather than scoffing at her nerdiness, Valencia joins in – “I said I was popular, not Amish. Not to mention a lot of clients want _Harry Potter_ parties" — and they sort their friends into houses. 

After they’ve sorted Darryl into Hufflepuff, Heather into Ravenclaw, and Paula (tentatively) into Gryffindor, Rebecca says, “And what about you? What's your alignment?" 

Valencia swirls her wine. "Oh, I'd say I have some Slytherin tendencies."

"What? No, you're way too nice."

"Ha, says the girl who keeps roping me into minor crimes." She smirks. "What can I say, I'm ambitious. You've got one life, might as well make it count."

"Okay, now that I can get behind. Well, I for one am a Ravenclaw."

"Are you really?" 

Rebecca laughs, "What's that supposed to mean? You know I love learning."

"Yeah, but do you love it because of the learning, or because of what you can use it to achieve?"

"Because of the learning! Come on, you think I studied up on bell hooks — or _Harry Potter,_ for that matter — to achieve some nefarious goal?"

"I never said it was nefarious." Valencia smiles coyly. "I'm just saying, you would do well in Slytherin."

Rebecca grins. "Did you just quote the sorting hat? You know, I never saw it coming, but you might be nerdier than I am."

"Um, excuse me, you recognized the quote, so I'd say we're equal, _Ravenclaw._ "

"Now that's just reverse psychology. You're trying to ferret out — _snake out_ — my inner Slytherin, right?"

"No." Valencia leans in, holds Rebecca's gaze with the dark stars of her eyes. "It's a big message in the series — you are who you choose to become." She lays her hand atop Rebecca's on the table, quirks one corner of her mouth in an enigmatic smile.

Rebecca weaves their fingers together. "I’d say I’m pretty happy with our current choices.”

Valencia’s eyes sparkle in the candlelight as she raises her glass. "To who we're becoming."

With Valencia’s rosé and Rebecca’s glass of water, they entwine their arms and drink.

*

Rebecca’s feeling of invincibility persists throughout the evening. Even when her attempt at a sexy hair flip is more reminiscent of a young Justin Bieber than a Pantene commercial, and even when Valencia drops half a piece of uni in her wine (it only makes Rebecca like her more, to see her do something so human), the feeling never fractures. It’s better than anything she could have planned or fantasized. And it’s real life. 

When she drives Valencia home, the two sit for a moment in the car outside her building, holding hands and looking up at the huge silver moon in comfortable silence. Rebecca walks her to her door, and they say goodbye with a decidedly non-platonic kiss.

“See you this weekend?” says Valencia when they pull apart, her voice bold and shy all at once. 

“Totally,” says Rebecca, a bit breathless. As she walks to her car, she wonders if there have always been so many stars. 

Driving home, she passes a weird butter billboard that says, _Are you living your best life?_ and answers with an unequivocal, _Yes._

That night she lays in bed, snuggling into Ruth Gator Ginsberg and scrolling Valencia’s Instagram, too happy to sleep. She replays their conversation over and over, feeling the warm pulse of her heart spread through every toe and fingertip, her body a blossom of electricity. 

Everything is getting better and better. What had she even been worried about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously the situation's a lot more nuanced than that.
> 
> Thank you for reading so far! As always, any thoughts and feedback are highly appreciated.


End file.
